If I sound suspicious and ungrateful, do not judge me too harshly. Years of living among the Romans made me so. They are a dark and artful people, jealous of their diminished power and prestige, and stop at nothing to get what they want. Even at this stage of my life, I had not yet been exposed to the worst of the Roman character.
We embarked the following morning, just as the sun was rising over the sea. Procopius had hired a small galley, light and swift, and our journey across the Gulf was mercifully quick.
The galley sailed into the harbour at Syracuse at dusk. Belisarius’ banners flew from the ramparts and the towers of the palace, and all seemed peaceful inside the city as it basked in the warmth of a spring evening.
“Yes, the general’s here,” said an Isaurian bowman we encountered lounging outside a wine-shop on the docks, “and like to be here for some time. The invasion of Italy’s off.”
“Off?” squawked Procopius, “what do you mean, off?”
The Isaurian yawned and rubbed his unshaven chin. “I’m no politico,” he replied, “but it seems the King of the Goths has lost his nerve. Our conquest of Sicily scared the shit out of him, and he’s offered the Emperor a heap of gold and silver to leave Italy alone. If Caesar is a sensible man, he’ll take the money.”
“I must recommend your appointment to the imperial council,” Procopius said coldly.
He was angry, more at being ignorant of current events than anything. When we reached the palace he demanded loudly to see Belisarius, and with breathtaking arrogance swept through the guards and slaves as though they weren’t there.
Had Procopius been anyone else, he might have received a sword in his gut, for the men who guarded Belisarius took no chances. As it happened, his face and manner were well-known, and we were admitted to the general’s private chambers.
Belisarius was poring over a heap of maps and parchment by candlelight when we were ushered in, and let out a cry at the sight of us.
“Coel – alive!” he shouted, striding across the room to seize my hand, “I hardly dared to hope. We lost too many good men at Membresa. And you, Constantine!”
He embraced us both, and gave Procopius a playful punch on the arm. “I’m not surprised to see you alive and whole,” he laughed, “I believe you would find a safe passage through Hell. Where did you find my two deserters, then?”
Belisarius was in high good humour, and his secretary knew better than to spoil the mood with boasts. “I plucked them out of a stew,” he replied modestly, “the details of it are rather dull and routine. What of Italy, sir?”
Belisarius threw up his hands. “What of Italy, indeed! Well, there she lies, just a few miles off the coast of Sicily, and for now her southern mainland is open to invasion. King Theodatus wastes our time with talk. He has offered Justinian all manner of concessions. The yielding of Sicily to the Empire, yearly tribute of a crown weighing three hundred pounds in gold, a promise to supply three thousand Gothic auxiliaries to help defend our borders…all this, and much more, has he offered our ambassador in Ravenna.”
Myself and Constantine may as well have been shadows in the background. This was politics now, Procopius’ preferred battleground, and we could do naught but listen and learn.
“What of the war in Dalmatia?” he asked pointedly. I was dismayed when Belisarius gave a heavy sigh and sagged onto the stool beside his desk.
“Defeat and disaster,” he said wearily, “the news was waiting for me when I returned. Our army pushed back the Goths and stormed Salona, but then Gothic reinforcements appeared. Mundus’s son, the fool, sallied out against them, and was unhorsed and killed in sight of the walls. Mundus lost his head completely, as any father might when confronted with the death of his son, and led out the remainder of the garrison in a wild charge. They were destroyed, and Mundus slain. What was left of our army fled back over the frontier into Illyria.”
He grimaced, and pinched the bridge of his nose. For the first time I noticed the deep crease between his eyes, an indelible mark of worry and responsibility.
The news of our defeat in Dalmatia was shattering, but Procopius betrayed no hint of emotion. “Theodatus is now free to transfer men from Dalmatia to Italy,” he said. “If we are to strike, we must strike now, sir, before the mainland fills with barbarian troops.”
“I am waiting for word from the Emperor,” Belisarius said firmly, “I will do nothing without his sanction. Besides which, I have just quelled a mutiny here, and Stoza is still alive and at liberty in Africa. We must do nothing rash.”
That, judging from his drawn and haggard appearance, was a veiled wish for rest. Having conquered Sicily and saved North Africa, Belisarius must have feared that Justinian would now dispatch him to rescue the situation in Dalmatia. After that, what next? Would he be packed off to the eastern fringes of the Empire, to fight the Sassanids again, or sent back to Africa to hunt down Stoza and exterminate the troublesome Moors?
God had seen fit to grant Belisarius victory after victory. At some point his luck and favour would run out. Assuming, of course, that he didn’t simply collapse and die of exhaustion first.
I ventured to interrupt. “Where is Photius, sir?” I asked, “did he survive the battle?”
Procopius looked at me in anger and disbelief at my lack of subtlety, but I was not minded to play his games. Ever since our escape from Membresa, I had brooded over Photius’ attempt on my life, and was determined to pay him back in kind. As Constantine might have said, it was a matter of honour.
Belisarius looked surprised by the question. “Photius? Yes, he is alive. I sent him to Palermo to be with his mother. She prefers the north of the island. Why do you ask?”
Palermo. My vengeance would have to be delayed. “I saw him in the thickest of the battle,” I replied with an offhand shrug, “it grieved me to think that such a promising young man might have been slain.”
He smiled and patted my shoulder, pleased that I showed such concern for his beloved wife’s son. “You have a generous heart,” he said, “and Photius is indeed a promising youth. Headstrong, of course, but so was I at that age.”
He invited us to stay for dinner, and over the meal described more of the diplomatic sparring between Ravenna and Constantinople. It seemed that Theodatus was ready to promise anything to deter the wrath of Rome. There was even some talk of him abdicating, if Justinian should wish it.
We remained idle in Syracuse for the next few weeks, waiting for orders from the Emperor. Photius did not return from Palermo, and Procopius dissuaded me from going in search of him.
“No good would come of it, even if you slew him,” he said, “Belisarius would have no choice but to hang you for a murderer. Do not imagine that the death of her son would cause Antonina much grief. She is not a loving mother, and uses Photius as just another tool to achieve her ends.”
I was content to wait. Photius had tried to murder me, no doubt at his mother’s instigation, amid the noise and confusion of battle. I would bide my time, until the opportunity arose to serve him the same way. A blade in the dark, perhaps, when he was staggering back from a night’s drinking. There were ways and means, and it was tempting to hire a band of killers to do the work for me.
These happy thoughts occupied my time, and I briefly resumed my desultory affair with the shopkeeper’s daughter. There were other women, and my memory of that time is of a long, hazy summer, the last golden afterglow of youth and beauty.
Reality intruded with the onset of autumn, and the arrival of a messenger from the imperial court. Belisarius was closeted with him for several hours, along with his captains and Procopius.
After the meeting had broken up, Procopius sought me out in a taverna near the palace. He looked happy, which was ominous, for that usually meant trouble for someone.
“Best sharpen that old sword of yours, Coel,” he said, drawing up an extra stool and helping himself to my wine.
“The invasion is on again?” I asked through a mouthful of bread and olives.
>
“It is indeed. King Theodatus’s recent victories in Dalmatia have poured a little steel into the old man’s wilting spine. Three days ago he declared the proposed treaty null and void, broke his vow of peace, and seized and imprisoned our ambassadors in Ravenna. Justinian is furious, and has ordered Belisarius to invade Italy and topple Theodatus from his throne.”
I listened to this with mixed feelings. I was a soldier, and war was my trade, but I had grown comfortable in Sicily, and was reluctant to set out on what promised to be a hellish campaign.
“Belisarius is all energy and purpose,” Procopius added, “enough men will be left behind to garrison Palermo and Syracuse, but the bulk of our forces will concentrate at Messina.”
He picked up a chunk of bread as he spoke, and tore off pieces to represent our army and the planned invasion.
“From Messina,” - he picked up the largest crumb and pushed it towards me - “we will cross into Reggio via the Strait of Messina! It could not be better.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, frowning at him.
“Tut! Do you not recall your Greek history? No, I see you do not. God knows what kind of stunted education you received in that damp, misty northern island you call home. The Strait of Messina is home to Scylla and Charybdis.”
I must have looked blank, for he rolled his eyes at my ignorance. “Scylla and Charybdis,” he explained patiently, “were noted by the Greek historian Homer as sea-monsters that guarded the crossing between Sicily and the Italian mainland. He described Scylla as a six-headed serpent, and Charybdis as a kind of giant beast that dwelled on the seabed, waiting for ships to come along so she could drag them down and devour them, vessels, crew, and all.”
I had been raised to believe in the various fantastic beasts and monsters that populate British legends – pink-eared hounds, white harts, witches and giants and the monstrous razor-backed boar that haunted my childhood nightmares, the Twrch Trwyth – but sea-monsters was a step too far. I was surprised that Procopius, an educated and rational man to his roots, believed in such nonsense.
“No, I have not gone mad,” he said with the odd, high-pitched cackle that passed for laughter with him, “but I have certain theories as to the origin of these tales, and wish to test them. The crossing of the Strait will provide an ideal opportunity to do so.”
“Assuming our fleet is not devoured by Charybdis,” I said drily. He laughed again, and threw a bit of bread at me.
Belisarius wasted no time. He had drilled his troops all through the sleepy, peaceful days of summer, keeping them fit and combat-sharp in case our negotiations with the Goths broke down. Now our army was ordered into action at last, and the disparate squadrons of Isaurian archers and spearmen, foederatii troops and bucelarii converged on the port of Messina.
Twelve thousand men, the same number that sailed from Constantinople. Justinian had sent no reinforcements, and expected his golden general to perform the North African miracle all over again. Only this time, Belisarius was ordered to recapture the Roman homeland and her ancient capital, the city of Rome itself.
Thus, with rumbling guts and a sense of foreboding, I boarded Belisarius’ flagship once more.
9.
We crossed the narrow Strait with no sign of Homer’s sea-monsters, and no resistance from the Goths on the opposite coast. The latter, as Procopius informed me with a knowing look, was due to politics.
“Just yesterday there were five thousand Gothic infantry lining those cliffs,” he said, nodding at the rocky coastline of Reggio, “they are all scattered now, thanks to the treachery of their chief, Ebrimur.”
“Who is he?” I asked, holding onto the bow for support. The sea-sickness had me in its grip again, and at that moment the prospect of being swallowed up by Charybdis didn’t seem so dreadful.
“Theodatus’s son-in-law. He put his trust in Ebrimur, but should have known better. The glint of Roman gold overcame the young man’s sense of duty, and last night he abandoned his post and took a boat to Sicily. His men woke up to find him gone, and promptly deserted. God grant that all our victories should prove so easy.”
Procopius seemed to know a lot about this matter, and it wouldn’t have surprised me to learn that he had first suggested to Belisarius that Ebrimur could be bought off. He was much more than just a secretary, as I had discovered at Membresa.
“Presumably Justinian will give the traitor a medal,” I said sourly. I was never comfortable with this kind of double-dealing, even though it meant that our army had been spared a battle.
“Much more,” said Procopius, “Ebrimur will go to Constantinople, where the Emperor has offered to make him a Patrician and load him down with riches and honours. Such is the reward for treachery.”
I spat over the side. “I hope his money brings him comfort. Every right-thinking person will despise him.”
Procopius gave a bland little smile, and spoke no more of Ebrimur. The traitor did indeed make his way to the imperial capital, where Justinian received him as a dear friend and gave him all the titles and riches he had been promised. As I predicted, he was held with contempt by everyone else, and died shortly afterwards, possibly murdered. It is best not to rely on the gratitude of emperors.
Our landing at Reggio was unopposed, and the army swiftly formed up into line of march. As in North Africa, Belisarius hugged the coast, with squadrons of cavalry sent ahead as a vanguard and to protect his right flank. The infantry and the baggage toiled along in the rear.
Amid the noise and bustle and summer heat, Procopius somehow found the time to go in search of his monsters, or the truth behind them. Belisarius let him ride out with just one Hunnish horse archer for an escort, even though we were in hostile territory and Procopius was a useful servant.
“Try not to get eaten,” I called out as he rode past. In response he treated me to an obscene gesture, which sent a ripple of laughter down the line.
Belisarius and his guards were part of the main body of the army. We rode at a trot, so as not to get too far ahead of the infantry, our banners fluttering in the gentle breeze. The shore-line was immediately to the east, and beyond that the deep blue sea, with our ships strung out on the horizon. As usual, Belisarius had ordered the fleet to shadow the army and remain within sight at all times.
My sickness soon passed, as it always did when I set foot on dry land. I gloried in the fresh air sweeping in from the sea, and the discipline and grandeur of the Roman army on the march.
We marched north through Bruttium in sweltering heat, with the sun beating down mercilessly on our heads and threatening to boil me alive in my heavy coat of mail. The south of Italy was a land of stark contrasts, rocky and arid, but also startlingly beautiful, with emerald green forests and little white-walled towns perched on hills and rocky bluffs.
Belisarius ignored the smaller towns. His objective was Naples, the greatest city in southern Italy, defended by a strong Gothic garrison. The capture of Naples would be a serious blow to Theodatus’s prestige, already damaged by his failure to defend Sicily and groveling overtures to Justinian. The reputation of Roman arms also had to be redeemed after our defeat in Dalmatia.
Our army marched through Bruttium and Lucania without encountering any resistance. The native Italians flocked to our standards, hailing us as brothers and deliverers from the oppressive barbarian yoke. This was nonsense: the Goths had governed Italy far better than most of the latter-day Caesars.
The government of Theodatus held to the Arian heresy, which was unpopular in Italy, and his troops had utterly abandoned the countryside. Submitting to Belisarius was the sane and logical decision for the populace to make. Most of the smaller towns lacked adequate defences, and could not have withstood an assault.
Belisarius greeted their adulation and pledges of loyalty with a smiling countenance, and distributed gifts of food and money among the peasants, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. His naturally grave and solemn features became more drawn as we approached Napoli, and I could see
the lights in his pavilion burning long into the night. The reduction of Italy’s second city represented his greatest challenge since the war against the Vandals. As we marched he kept his eyes fixed on the skyline, watching for any sign of the enemy. It was all far too easy, and no man can roll winning dice forever.
Naples, when we finally arrived within sight of the city walls, was both a formidable obstacle and subject of awe, a vision of ancient Roman splendour and imperial might. Her elegant villas, palaces, temples and aqueducts are graven into my memory, for this was Imperial Rome as I had imagined it as a child in Britain, when my nurse enthralled me with stories of legions and emperors.
In military terms, the city was a nightmare. The land for several miles around had been stripped bare of fodder and livestock by the garrison, and Gothic banners flew defiantly from the ramparts. Like Palermo, Naples was a port, and had no fleet to defend the harbour, but was much better-garrisoned. The Goths inside her walls were crack troops, and unlike the demoralized and ill-trained levies at Palermo would not capitulate after a single bombardment.
“We will have to carry the place by storm,” I overheard Bessas say as we surveyed the walls, “or starve them out. And we have no time for a lengthy siege.”
There was a note of satisfaction in his voice. Belisarius had described him as an old butcher, and so he was, firmly believing that a victory was hardly worthy of the name unless oceans of blood were spilled. I took one look at Napoli’s high walls, lined with rows of gleaming helmets, and the strong iron-bound gates, and shuddered.
Belisarius could not risk any delay, for each day that passed gave the Goths time to gather their strength and ship troops back from Dalmatia. He would have to order an all-out assault, and I would be among those sent up the ladders.
I was also on my guard against further assassination attempts. For reasons I could not fathom, Photius had been left behind in Sicily, though he was expected to join the army eventually. My comrades in the Guards were friendly enough, though I knew at least one had conspired with Photius to try and murder me on the battlefield at Membresa. I was cordial but distant, preferring to mess on my own and discouraging familiarity. Until I knew who the co-conspirator was, I felt unable to trust any of them.
Siege of Rome Page 8
