Siege of Rome

by David Pilling

  She referred to my refusal to take part in a three-way coupling with the Empress, during an orgy in Constantinople, and my later refusal to spy on Belisarius during the North African campaign. I had never regretted either decision, though they cost me the life of a childhood friend, and caused me much pain and hardship since.

  “You are proud, of course,” she went on, “ever so proud of your descent from barbarian princes and a remarkable grandfather. Arthur, was his name? I think I can picture him. An uncouth Roman-British chieftain, covered in tattoos and war-paint, strong as an ox, smelly as a pig.”

  Now I understood. Antonina was trying to goad me, to provoke me into reaching for Caledfwlch and striking her down. As soon as I moved, she would yell for her guards and have me cut to pieces on the spot. Like her friend Theodora, she was not half so subtle as she pretended, and every bit as murderous.

  “I imagine he held court in a big wooden hall,” she went on, warming to her theme, “with straw and dung on the floors and shields hanging on the walls. His warriors got swine-drunk on mead and boasted to each other of the men they had killed. The great man himself sat at high table, drinking bad wine and wearing a purple-dyed cloak in a pitiful attempt at aping Roman customs and styles. A stinking, ignorant, ludicrous barbarian.”

  She had some strange notions of British fashions – only the wild Picts beyond the Wall painted their bodies – and I was more amused than offended.

  “Arthur would have been a barbarian to your eyes, true,” I replied, “but he had honour, and courage, and fought to the last to defend his country. He killed his enemies face-to-face, on the battlefield, and never stooped to conspiring in dark corners, or sending hired murderers to do his dirty work. Where is Elene?”

  Antonina waved aside my feeble effort to throw her off-track. “Honour,” she mused, “what a strange notion. Men spend their time killing each other like beasts in the field, and so invented the rules of honour to make it all more seemly. I am but a weak woman, Coel, and I came from nothing. I cannot rely on a proud lineage to protect me, or pick up a sword to defend myself.”

  “You have plenty to do that for you,” I said, with a meaningful glance at the door.

  Antonia smiled again, exposing perfect white teeth, and this time her smile had a genuine warmth to it. “Perhaps you are not quite such a bore,” she said, “there is a spark of wit buried away in you somewhere, under all that stiffness and stuffed nobility.”

  She suddenly rose and clapped her hands. The double doors swung open, and three helmed and mailed guardsmen strode in. Cursing, for Antonina had lulled me into lowering my guard, I scrambled out of bed and lunged for Caledfwlch.

  My leg got tangled up in a blanket, and I missed, overturning the chair and spilling the contents all over the floor.

  “For God’s sake,” Antonina said distastefully as I groveled on the floor, trying to kick my leg free, “do you think I intend to have you butchered in my own bedchamber? Even the Goths are more sophisticated than that. Get up and dress, you strange man. My guards have no more desire to see your naked backside than I do.”

  Reddening, I dragged on the underclothes, breeches, tunic and boots laid aside for me – they were new and clean, and a gift from Antonina – and wrestled on my sword-belt. There was a fine woolen cloak as well, fastened at the shoulder with a silver brooch worth more than a month’s pay.

  “There,” she said when I was done, looking at me with a critical eye, “you are almost presentable. Not quite good enough to be presented to an emperor, but good enough for my husband. Come.”

  I eyed her guards suspiciously, but they seemed to have no immediate intent to murder me. Keeping my hand near Caledfwlch, I followed Antonina into the corridor.

  She led me along the wide, airy passage and down a flight of steps. Her guards marched behind us, and I was painfully aware of my back being exposed to their swords, should their mistress choose to put aside her friendly mask.

  The stair led to a little antechamber, which itself opened out on the grand audience chamber where I had witnessed Belisarius reject the Gothic peace terms. It was virtually empty, save for the general himself, Bessas and Constantine, and a couple of Roman senators.

  They were deep in argument when we entered, their wrangling voices echoing around the hall. Antonina lifted her hand, signaling us to halt, and a smile played around her lips as she listened to the furious exchange.

  “We did not ask you to come,” cried one of the senators, a fleshy-faced greybeard who sprayed spittle as he talked, “Rome had recovered some of her wealth and dignity under the Goths, and her people were content. Then your Emperor saw fit to send you, General Belisarius, to drag us back into the Empire, almost a century after we had been cast adrift.”

  Belisarius listened impatiently, resting his chin on his fist and tapping his knee. The greybeard’s companion, an enormously large man who I can best compare to a mound of rancid butter poured into a toga, took up the cudgels.

  “We invited you in!” he barked, raising one fat finger in admonition, “despite the risk to her newfound peace and prosperity, Rome opened her gates to your army. The sight of imperial banners reminded us of our ancient heritage, and stirred up old passions that were best left dormant.”

  He stabbed the finger at Belisarius. “Now war has come, and you won’t allow us to fight. Instead you put your trust in mercenaries, barbarians of mongrel blood from far-flung provinces that once paid us tribute, and you think them more fit to defend Rome than its own citizens!”

  This was something new. Thus far the people of Rome had played no part in the siege, other than to irritate and harass our troops as we rebuilt the defences. The cowardly attitude of the citizens, who were after all descended from that extraordinary, all-conquering race who once made the whole world their slave, had disappointed and baffled me. How could they, with such a proud heritage, ignore a chance to throw off their Germanic masters and become true Romans again?

  Now, it seemed, the victories of Belisarius had ignited a flame in their breasts. He, however, was having none of it.

  “I am impressed with your valour,” he said quietly once the lips of the senators had ceased to flap, “and happy to know that something of the old Roman martial spirit survives. But we must be practical. Even if I submitted to your request, and put every able-bodied man in Rome under arms, our combined army would still lack the numbers to face the Goths in open battle.”

  The senators squawked and scoffed at his caution. “Lack the numbers?” cried the greybeard, “why, any one of your soldiers is worth ten of those barbarians! Your generals inform me that upwards of thirty thousand Goths died in the battle three nights ago, for the loss of some three or four thousand of our men.”

  “My men,” Belisarius corrected him, “and even if the figure of thirty thousand is accurate, that still leaves us with a hundred and twenty thousand Goths to contend with. Their Frankish allies and auxiliaries from Dalmatia will soon arrive to make good their losses.”

  He spread his hands. “I have written to the Emperor in Constantinople, begging him for reinforcements. So far I have received nothing in reply. Until fresh troops arrive, assuming they ever do, I cannot afford to risk the few I have in an uncertain and unnecessary battle.”

  “That is my reply,” he said firmly when they made to protest, “tell the Senate. Good day, gentlemen.”

  The senators didn’t like it, but there was nothing they could do, and Belisarius refused to brook any further argument. They bowed, their eyes glittering with malice, and waddled out of the room, muttering darkly to each other.

  Belisarius puffed out his cheeks and slumped in his chair. Bessas spotted us, and leaned down to whisper in his ear.

  He suddenly came to life again. His eyes widened as they drank in Antonina, who was already advancing towards him. She swayed slightly as she walked, and I was hard-put not to fasten my eyes on that slender, elegant frame, carved and shaped by nature to entrap men and bend them to her will. She wa
s always a greater natural beauty than her friend Theodora, whose physical charms coarsened with age, and had to be sustained and to some extent replaced by cosmetics.

  It worried me to see the light in Belisarius’ eyes, which shone for no-one on earth save his wife. He was Antonina’s slave, and guided by her in most things save the waging of war. His generals would have lost all respect for him if they thought his strategy was being dictated by his wife, and she was careful never to intervene.

  I had rarely observed the couple at such close quarters. It struck me how she wouldn’t let him get too near, warding off his embrace and kissing him chastely on the cheek.

  “Coel,” he said, noticing me for the first time, “back on your feet, I see. My wife has taken good care of you, then?”

  “The best, sir,” I replied, swallowing the bile that rose in my throat, “my shoulder is on the mend at last.”

  “Shame about your face, though,” he said with a grin. I had forgotten my broken nose, and carefully raised my hand to touch it. The damned thing had set awkwardly. Later, when I had leisure to peer at my reflection in a mirror made of polished metal, I found that my face, never my most attractive feature, now resembled that of an African ape.

  “We overheard your conversation with the senators, husband,” said Antonina, “it seems they have found their courage at last.”

  “Fools,” he growled, “they want me to arm the citizens and lead them out to face the Goths in the open. Our recent successes have convinced them that Vitiges will take one look at their swords and run away.”

  “If the Romans want to fight, let them,” said Bessas, “but without our aid. This city would be a lot easier to defend without the inhabitants whining and snapping at us.”

  “Rome emptied of Romans,” said Belisarius, rubbing his chin, “an attractive thought, though it would render our mission rather pointless.”

  He turned back to me. “Forgive me, Coel. We are neglecting you. Has my wife informed you of your promotion?”

  “The Lady Antonia was good enough to do so, sir,” I said woodenly, deliberately avoiding Antonina’s eye. I knew she was smirking, and longed to do or say something to wipe out her insufferable complacency, “though I hardly think I deserve such an honour. You made me a decanus, and I lost my entire command.”

  “That was none of your fault,” said Belisarius, “we lost over six hundred men at the Praenestine Gate. Many officers and men died. Your conduct, however, was exemplary. You fought at the Salarian Gate, in the defence of Hadrian’s mausoleum, and at the Praenestine Gate. Constantine assures me that the Goths would have taken the mausoleum, if you had not thought to use the statuary to repel them.”

  Using the statues as missiles had in fact been Ubaz’s idea, but he was no longer alive to claim the credit. I glanced at Constantine. At first I thought my unlooked-for promotion was mainly thanks to him, but then I received praise from an unexpected quarter.

  “I saw Coel stand his ground in the last fight,” said Bessas, his craggy face twisted into something like a smile, “even though he was exhausted and nigh-dead on his feet. I have no hesitation in approving his promotion.”

  I only stood my ground because I was pinned to the wall by a dead Hun, but it seemed impolitic to say so. God had seen fit to smile on me, which made a pleasant change from what he usually dropped on my head, and so I ate up the honey while it lasted.

  18.

  The siege wore on into spring. Neither side wished to risk another engagement. We could not afford the casualties, and Vitiges’ already dented prestige might not have survived another defeat. The Goths only respect strength in their kings, and expect them to provide victory after victory in the field. To be repeatedly defeated by a handful of inbred Romans and ill-disciplined Eastern mercenaries, as they perceived us, was an intolerable humiliation.

  Vitiges settled down to break our resistance through famine and blockade. He failed, however, to cut off the lines of communication between Rome and the Campanian coast, and in the latter days of April wonderful news arrived: a Roman fleet had arrived at last from Constantinople, carrying a squadron of Hunnish and Sclavonian cavalry.

  The troops had embarked at the end of the previous year, but storms had delayed the fleet’s departure and forced it to winter in Greece. They landed on the northern bank of the mouth of the Tiber, guarded by a fortress called the Port of Rome. The fort, along with the fortified town of Ostia on the southern bank, had once guarded the sea-passage into Rome, but the Goths had seized both. Even so, our reinforcements were able to get past the defences and ride along the ancient stone highway, eighteen miles in length, to the gates of the city.

  Our elation was short-lived. “Is that all?” exclaimed Procopius as we watched the riders enter the Salarian Gate, “a few hundred light cavalry? There must be more!”

  There were sixteen hundred in total, mostly horse-archers. They were a useful addition to our depleted garrison, but the sense of disappointment was palpable. Whether through envy or neglect or sheer poverty of resources, the Emperor had responded to Belisarius’ begging letters by sending a bare minimum of aid.

  Procopius, never Justinian’s greatest admirer, was beside himself with rage. “He wants Belisarius to fail,” he snarled, “the flatterers and traitors at court have poured so many lies into him, he can scarcely tell truth from falsehood any more. That evil whore of a wife has corrupted him with every form of degenerate vice. I tell you, Coel, Justinian is not fit to be called Caesar. He is not fit for anything save emptying the dung-pits of his slaves!”

  I clapped my hand over his mouth. We were standing in the street just inside the gate, where anyone might hear us, and Procopius had just uttered enough treason to condemn him several times over.

  “For God’s sake, mind your tongue,” I whispered, “if Belisarius overheard half of that, he would have no choice but to place you on trial. Do you want to hang?”

  “Belisarius would not lay a finger on me,” he sneered, pushing me away, “I know too much, and am far too valuable to him. Besides, I am sure he shares my opinion of our beloved ruler.”

  “Has he actually said as much?”

  “Not as such, but I know him, Coel. I have been his private secretary for many years, and I can read his thoughts. It wouldn’t take much for…”

  His voice trailed away, thank the Lord. Even he baulked at voicing the unspeakable, though I had occasionally heard our men talking of it in low voices when in their cups.

  Why were they fighting against desperate odds in the service of a distant Emperor who sent them little help, and who appeared not to care if his soldiers lived or died? Who was their real leader, the man who fought and suffered alongside them, who had led them to one improbable victory after another?

  Belisarius, of course. Why could the soldiers not raise a general to the purple, instead of Justinian? It had happened before, many times, during the turbulent years when the Roman Empire tore itself apart. Unlike Justinian, who sat idle in Constantinople and lived in luxury while his people suffered, Belisarius was the very image of a soldier-emperor, in the mould of Hadrian and Trajan and Marcus Aurelius.

  My history was patchy, but I seemed to recall that very few emperors whose authority relied on the army lasted very long. Being a learned historian, Procopius was well aware of this, but even he was starting to indulge treasonous thoughts. They would curdle over the years, until his brilliant mind became tragically unhinged, and he wrote a series of disgraceful secret histories damning Justinian and his court in the most lurid and ridiculous terms. The histories were hidden, for once published his life would have been forfeit. I read a few fragments, and am very thankful they remain locked away in some obscure vault. May they never, God willing, see the light of day.

  Enraged at the ease with which our reinforcements had slipped past his outposts, Vitiges tightened his grip on Rome. His fleet blockaded the seas, and he made great efforts to cut off all contact between the city and our garrisons in the south. To that
end he seized two ruined aqueducts which lay seven miles from Rome, the arches of which covered a substantial part of the country. His workmen turned these ruins into a makeshift fortress, blocking up the gaps with stone and clay, and inside it he placed a garrison of seven thousand men.

  We were now surrounded on all sides. With every day that passed, our supplies were reduced, and fresh Gothic reinforcements were seen on the horizon. As Belisarius had predicted, his Frankish allies had sent thousands of auxiliaries to aid Vitiges, and more troops were pouring in from Dalmatia and other Gothic provinces.

  The atmosphere inside the city grew desperate. Even Belisarius’ ingenious water-mills could not replenish our dwindling supplies of grain, and he was forced to halve the bread ration doled out to the citizens. Any civilization is only a few meals away from collapse, and the people of Rome were already demoralised by the long months of siege and Belisarius’ refusal to let them fight.

  In their extremity, the Romans started to forget Christ and revert to their ancient gods and pagan idolatries. I watched in disbelief as people sought comfort from a particularly shameless breed of charlatan known as soothsayers, who claimed to be able to read the future in mystic omens and the spilled guts of animals.

  “It’s all harmless enough,” Procopius assured me as we walked the streets together one afternoon, “let them believe in their omens and auguries. Such heathen antics are to be deplored, of course, but anything that keeps the mob quiet must also be tolerated.”

  I was off-duty, and inclined to spend most of my few leisure hours in his company. His lively conversation made a welcome change from attempting to communicate with the men of my new command, a hundred rough Isaurian spearmen from the wildest and most lawless regions of their native mountains. Belisarius had seen fit to put me in charge of a detachment of infantry, either because he didn’t trust me with cavalry, or because there was nothing else available. I preferred to believe the latter.