It was a good plan, but ruined by the prudence of Vitiges. After hearing news of the revolt against him, Theodatus had fled Rome and headed alone towards Ravenna, hoping to raise support there. Vitiges sent an officer after him, a young man who apparently held some private grudge against Theodatus. The officer pursued the fugitive night and day and eventually overtook him at the fifth milestone from Ravenna. There, Theodatus went down on his aged knees and begged for mercy, but the youth had none, and murdered him on the spot.
Word of Theodatus’s death reached Belisarius at Albano, where he had made camp before making the final advance on Rome, just a few miles to the north-east. He camped near the crumbling remains of the Castra Albana, a series of military camps built by some long-dead Emperor to station his legions near Rome. A flourishing town had sprung up the ruins, but the inhabitants locked and barred their gates against us.
I was desperate to clap eyes on Rome, but Belisarius remained in camp for a full day and night, waiting for a response to the latest message he had sent to Pope Silverius and the senators.
Once again the campaign hovered on the edge of catastrophe. If the Romans followed the example of the Neopolitans, and held true to their Gothic conquerors, we would be faced with the task of reducing the strongest city in Italy.
Vitiges had withdrawn to Ravenna, where dire rumours reached us of the enormous host he was collecting from all corners of the Gothic nation. Unknown to us at the time, he was also in talks with the three Kings of the Franks who had previously sworn a pact with Justinian. In return for various bribes and promises, they agreed to betray the Emperor, and secretly send as many troops as they could spare to aid Vitiges.
“There are no clever stratagems that will fool the Romans,” said Procopius, “Belisarius has used up his supply of tricks and good fortune. There are four thousand Goths inside Rome, and over a hundred and fifty thousand of the brutes mustering at Ravenna and other places.”
“A hundred and fifty thousand?” I scoffed, “that is an absurd figure. The entire Vandal nation in arms at Tricamarum was no more than fifty thousand. No people on earth can muster that many warriors.”
He gave a mournful little shake of his head. “You forget, Coel, I have agents and spies planted all over the country. The Goths and Ostrogoths and their foul kinsmen are as numerous as locusts. If Vitiges draws all his power together, Belisarius cannot hope to face him in the field. Our pathetic little army would be crushed underfoot. Our only hope is to take Rome, strengthen its walls and endure the worst that the Goths can throw at us.”
“To what end? Even if we take the city, how long can we possibly hold it against such a monstrous host? Does Belisarius hope for reinforcements from the Emperor?”
“Yes. Justinian envies his golden general, and is far too willing to listen to liars and flatterers who would have him believe that Belisarius is a traitor, but he cannot simply abandon us to our fate.”
He held up a narrow finger. “One defeat, Coel. The Roman Empire stands perpetually on the edge of oblivion. One defeat is all it would take to tip us over the edge. Justinian cannot afford to throw away twelve thousand men.”
“I remember Narses saying something to that effect,” I said, “on the dockside at Constantinople, as we watched the fleet assemble for the expedition to North Africa. There was a time when Rome could muster ten legions for a campaign.”
“Precisely. Now we can barely scrape together as many as three, and most of our troops are barbarians and sell-swords. We are living in the latter days, Coel. All is vanity.”
I looked at him in surprise. Belisarius had used those very words to me, in the garden at Carthage, and the defeated Vandal king, Gelimer, had wailed them as he was paraded through the streets in Constantinople. Then I remembered that Procopius was closer to the general than I, and must have picked up the saying from him.
Our pessimistic mood lasted until an envoy finally arrived from Rome. He brought the news we longed for. Pope and Senate had decided to resist the Goths, and welcome the arrival of Belisarius with open arms.
Belisarius was on his feet and barking orders almost before the envoy had finished speaking. Infused with his spirit, our army shook itself into life and prepared to advance the last few miles to Rome.
Even as our soldiers broke camp, Belisarius turned from a meeting of his captains and beckoned at me.
“I must apologise,” he said, offering me his hand, “I meant to speak with you after the capture of Naples, but lacked the opportunity. Procopius told me you were the man who explored the aqueduct and discovered the secret way into the city. Yet another fine service you have performed, for which Rome thanks you.”
He vigorously shook my hand. I reddened, but he waved away the modest protests forming on my lips. “There is something else. Words are not enough. You are far too capable and useful a man to languish in my Guards, watching over my tent at night. I will give you a commission, and make you a captain of horse.”
It sounded very fine, but in reality he made me a decanus, that is, a low-ranking officer in charge of ten cavalrymen. He was far too canny a soldier to place a man with no experience of command in charge of anything greater. The next rank up was centenarius, commanding a hundred men, which would have put me in a position to do some serious harm to our own side if I proved incompetent.
Still, it was another mark of favour, and another slap in the face of those who wished me ill. I never knew what was said between Belisarius and Procopius in private, but suspect that Procopius may have suggested that I needed a permanent bodyguard of my own. Belisarius knew I had enemies, though he was still blind to the deceits and intrigues of his wife.
“Thank you, sir,” I replied, bowing my head. I glanced sideways and spotted Photius standing among a little knot of officers. Our eyes met for the first time since our brief combat at Membresa. I gave the hilt of Caledfwlch a meaningful pat. The message was clear: your time will come.
The men he gave me were of the race of the Heruli, the tribe of Germanic foederati troops I had lived and trained with for a time outside Constantinople. Belisarius knew my history, so it was probably a deliberate choice.
I had picked up some of their language, and my wrists and arms still bore the faded blue tattoo-marks inked onto them by Girenas, one of the few close friends I made among that clannish people. Poor Girenas had succumbed to the disease that swept through our fleet on the voyage to north Africa, but the marks were enough to overcome the initial suspicion and reticence of the men in my new command. They were good soldiers, disciplined after their fashion, with decent gear and horses, and lacking an officer since their previous decanus was killed during the street-fighting in Naples.
My men were attached to a cohort commanded by Bessas, and so now I was one of his subordinates instead of the ambivalent position I had held as a member of Belisarius’ personal guard.
“Some men might regard this as a demotion,” he said, grinning at me, “swapping the easy life of a glorified bodyguard to serve as a junior officer of horse? You will have no easy time of it, I assure you.”
“I have no desire for an easy life, sir,” I replied stoutly, and remembered to salute. He sneered at me and moved on, roaring at his captains to get their troops into line. I knew Bessas as a brave and capable officer, if bloodthirsty, and trusted by Belisarius. In later years I would discover another, much darker, side to his character.
Our army advanced on Rome, and I shall never forget the moment we descended the ridge of Albano, and the Eternal City lay spread out before us.
She was not quite as magnificent as I had pictured her, shimmering like some dream-city in a deathless summer haze. This was winter, and the city of stone and marble that lay before us was suited to the season. My overriding image is of a great expanse of stark grey and white buildings, with the gaunt silhouettes of the Circus Maximus and Capitol Hill looming over all.
The fading images of my childhood are dominated by my first clear sight of Constantinople, the mot
her of cities and apex of the world, straddling the Bosphorus like a vast glittering jewel. By comparison Rome was less grand, less opulent and exotic, and yet had a stern, forbidding majesty all of her own.
We advanced towards the city from the south, towards the Asinarian gate. Joy of joys, the gates stood open, and a great cheer rolled down the length of our army as the word spread: Rome had submitted, and the object of our conquest was achieved without a blow being struck.
Bessas’ cohort formed part of the vanguard, and Belisarius ordered us forward to secure the gate. As we rode closer, a man became visible standing alone under the arch.
He was a Goth of noble status, his long fair hair brushed and powdered until it floated about his shoulders, clad in shining silver mail and a red woolen cloak fringed with white fur. An empty scabbard of red leather hung from his belt, and at his feet lay a fine spatha with a jeweled hilt. Lying beside the sword was a ring carrying a number of large iron keys.
Bessas summoned me to his side. “Your first duty,” he said, “go and speak to that idiot and find out who he is.”
I spurred forward, conscious of the eyes of the entire army on me, and raised my empty right hand in greeting, to show that I meant no harm.
“Welcome home, Roman,” said the Goth, folding his massive arms, “you have been too long away.”
He was a fine-looking man, blue-eyed and handsome in a ruddy sort of way. I smiled at his mistake.
“I am a Briton in the service of Rome,” I replied, reining in, “and my home lies many thousands of miles from here. As does yours. Why do you stand under the gate?”
“To yield up the city. My name is Leuderis, commander of the garrison of Rome. Or I was until my men chose to abandon their posts. They marched out via the Flaminian gate, and even now are fleeing north, like whipped dogs, to seek Vitiges.”
I rested my fist on my hip. “But you stayed?”
“Yes. I stayed. Your General Belisarius is free to take me prisoner, or hang me, or whatever he sees fit.”
“There lies my sword,” he added, nodding at the blade, “and the keys of Rome. You may tell Belisarius that the city is his.”
13.
On the tenth day of December, Belisarius entered the Eternal City and reclaimed it for the Empire. He did so informally, wasting no time on formal processions or grand proclamations, though he did have the royal Gothic banners on Capitol Hill torn down and replaced with our imperial standards. For the first time in over a hundred years, the purple and gold flew over Rome.
He treated Leuderis with honour, and sent him back to Constantinople as a captive, along with the keys to the city. Then he immediately set about the work of putting Rome in a state of defence. The city had flourished again under the rule of Theoderic the Great and his successors, but the walls had been allowed to fall into ruin, and needed to be repaired before the arrival of Vitiges and his hordes of Gothic warriors.
The bewildered citizens, who had lined the streets to welcome our soldiers, found themselves ignored, save those Belisarius hired as extra labour. He met with the Pope and the Senate, of course, and treated them with all due honour and courtesy, but diplomacy was never Belisarius’ greatest strength. They were a pack of treacherous swine, good for nothing save plotting in darkened corners, and began scheming against Belisarius almost as soon as he marched into the city.
For days all was intense bustle and activity, and I found myself obliged to pick up a shovel and play the role of workman. Rome’s ancient, decaying ramparts were bolstered and strengthened, bastions and towers constructed, fresh battlements erected to replace those that had collapsed and fallen away, great holes in the walls plugged with fresh masonry, or earth and timber if stone was lacking. The defensive ditch that surrounded the city had been completely neglected, choked with weeds and rubbish, and had to be cleared, deepened and extended. Meanwhile our fleet transported fresh supplies of corn from Sicily, which were stored inside Rome’s many granaries, so we would not starve during the inevitable siege.
I had imagined that the Romans would be delighted to see the powerful fortifications rising around them, and rush to our aid. It soon became clear they had surrendered the city, not out of patriotic reasons, but as an act of craven self-preservation.
“Why do you waste your strength, throwing up these walls?” I remember one stout citizen yelling at me as I rested on my spade, “Rome is too large for you to defend her at every point, and the Goths too numerous! You must fly, fly back to the east, before you are surrounded and destroyed!”
I rubbed the back of my hand across my face, wiping away some of the sweat and grime, and sighed. “We have only just arrived,” I said patiently, “are you tired of our presence already?”
His eyes bulged, veins constricting on his broad forehead, and he waved his arms at me. “You mock!” he shouted, “let us see how you laugh when the Goths spread your naked body on the blood-eagle and split your ribs open!”
This was the first I had heard of the Goths indulging in this particularly gruesome form of execution, said to be practiced by the wild tribes of the Scotti in the furthest northern reaches of Britain.
“You must be a learned man,” I remarked, picking up my shovel, “or else prey to a fevered imagination. Now I must go on with my work.”
He continued to rave at me, and my comrades, as we piled up a great heap of earth and stones to form a rampart near one of the city’s northern gates, close to the Mausoleum of Augustus. I was fascinated by this enormous circular tomb, built by the first Emperor to house the earthly remains of the imperial family, but as yet had enjoyed no leisure to study it. Belisarius kept his soldiers hard at work, and none worked harder than the men of Bessas’ cohort.
Procopius, of course, crawled all over the ancient ruins and monuments like an endlessly inquisitive ant, gasping and exclaiming at each new find. I rarely spoke to him now, thanks to my new duties, but he occasionally sought me out to enthuse about the wonders of Rome and its history. I believe Belisarius ordered him to check on me, out of concern for Caledfwlch.
“That sword is a sacred trust,” Procopius would often say, “personally I would have wrenched it from your grasp long ago, and sent it for safe-keeping in Constantinople. It should be gathering dust among the other heirlooms of Empire, safely guarded in the deepest vault of the Great Palace.”
“You are welcome to try and take it from me,” I said with a slight edge of warning in my voice, “Caledfwlch never leaves my sight. This sword is my constant companion. The only true and lasting friend I have ever known.”
He sniffed. “I am not in the least bit surprised. You are a surly brute, entirely devoid of manners and graces, and it is like you to make friends with a bit of metal.”
While we laboured and sweated to turn Rome back into the impregnable fortress she had once been, storm-clouds were gathering in the north of Italy. Vitiges had mustered his great host near Ravenna, every bit as strong and numerous as Procopius feared, and began his march on Rome.
The ground must have quaked under the tread of so many men. I quaked in my camp-bed at night, picturing hordes of barbarians converging on the city, long lines of gleaming spears and black banners.
The folly and arrogance of Justinian were thrown into stark relief. Our proud, ambitious little Caesar had sent us all to our deaths, while he sat in his splendid palace at Constantinople, safe and comfortable and surrounded by every conceivable luxury.
At his side sat Theodora, that evil woman, as spiteful as she was beautiful, who had done her best to murder me. Her painted face faded from my mind, replaced by the ugly features of Narses, the dwarfish eunuch who had tried to break me and make me his agent. Was he behind the recent attempts on my life, or were Antonina and Photius still the Empress’s creatures? Who did Elene serve, and would I ever see her again?
I will see you again, before you die…
Those were her last words to me, at the ruins of the aqueduct outside Naples. It was the height of folly to suppose
that she had meant them with affection. Any love that existed between us was dead, destroyed, like everything else good in my life, by the cruelty of my enemies.
Everything except Caledfwlch. Try as they might, they could not take the sword from me. I hugged the blade at night, and in the small hours fancied that I could hear the voices of the trapped souls inside, whispering to me.
Belisarius had no intention of sitting and waiting inside the city for the Goths to come to him. Despite his slender resources and numbers, he dispatched troops to conquer the surrounding countryside and capture towns and fortresses, hoping the presence of so many Roman garrisons would impede the Gothic advance.
The region of Samnium submitted to us, and the city of Benevento opened its gates. Procopius visited Benevento, and was transported to new heights of ecstasy when he discovered the gigantic tusks of an ancient boar, some twenty-seven inches long and still sharp as a dagger. According to local legend, it had taken thirty warriors to bring down this demonic pig, which reminded of similar tales of the Twrch Trwyth in Britain.
Bessas was sent out with some light horse to capture the hilltop town of Narni, strategically important as it occupied a key position on the Via Flamini, the road that connected Rome to the Adriatic Sea.
I and my little troop were part of Bessas’ company, no more than two hundred strong, that rode out north of the Flaminian gate. The town itself was a pretty place, overhanging a narrow gorge over a river, and might have proved difficult to take had the citizens not yielded it up without a fight.
“God grant that Vitiges comes soon,” Bessas grumbled, “I have not smelled blood since Naples. These people are too easily conquered.”
Siege of Rome Page 12
