Caesar's Sword (I): The Red Death

by David Pilling

  “Belisarius has left them to starve me into surrender,” the king said, gloomily poking at the charred remains of a fire, “while he conquers the rest of my kingdom.”

  He clenched his fist. “The Romans will not find it so easy, even if I am blockaded in here. There are still thousands of my people in arms, led by captains who will not renounce their allegiance, even for Justinian’s gold.”

  The king over-estimated the will and the capacity of the Vandals to resist Belisarius. While we were holed up in Medenes, Belisarius had dispatched squadrons to reduce the rest of North Africa while he marched on Hippo Regius. That city was surrendered without a fight by the treacherous Boniface, who in return was permitted to sail away unmolested with a portion of Gelimer’s captured treasure.

  Vandal resistance crumbled inside a matter of weeks. Their provinces of Corsica and Sardinia offered their surrender as soon as they received the severed head of Zano, Gellimer’s brother, which Belisarius had despatched to them inside a basket. The Vandal-held fortress of Septem in the straits of Gibraltar was stormed and occupied, and the Balearic Islands reduced by one Appolinarius, a Vandal deserter in Roman service. That left only Medenes and a few other scattered outposts in Vandal hands. Belisarius was able to send word to the Emperor in Constantinople that North Africa was once again a Roman province.

  All the while, as the victorious Romans dismembered his kingdom, the defeated Gelimer sat and suffered on Mount Papua. I suffered with him. Winter was coming on, and the slopes of the mountain were draped in snow. The bone-cracking cold and icy winds did not seem to affect the Moors, who cheerfully slept on the bare ground outside their stinking tents, but I was in danger of freezing to death. Our supplies of food steadily dwindled, and what there was consisted of goat’s cheese and coarse grain. The grain was eaten raw, or pounded and baked into a type of unleavened and scarcely digestible bread.

  Several weeks into this miserable ordeal the Heruli made their one and only effort to storm Medenes. Pharas was impatient to end the war and earn the praise of Belisarius by bringing him the Vandal king in chains. Even so, Mount Papua presented a forbidding obstacle, and he was a good enough soldier to know that a direct assault would almost certainly end in disaster. Against his better judgment, he allowed his officers to persuade him into making an attempt at night.

  I was crouched under a heap of cloaks in a corner of a ruined outbuilding, trying in vain to ignore the numbing cold and the dreary howling of the wind, when Euages came to rouse me.

  “Up, Coel, and arm,” he shouted, prodding me with the butt of a javelin, “the Romans are attacking.”

  He hurried away, while torches flickered in the darkened street outside and high-pitched Moorish voices yelled in alarm. I got to my feet, none too quickly, and tried to gulp down my excitement. The Heruli were coming.

  I had to find Gelimer before they killed or captured him. If not, Caledfwlch might be lost to me forever.

  Snatching up a javelin and a shield, I padded out into the street. A few Moors ran past me, heading towards the sound of a bull-horn from the direction of the gate. I followed them, and saw Moorish warriors lining the walkway or standing on the ruined battlements, hurling rocks and javelins and screaming war-cries in their unintelligible tongue.

  Gelimer and the Moorish chief were helping to pile loose rocks and bits of timber onto the heap of rubble that blocked up the gateway. The Vandal king beckoned me over to help.

  “Come, Briton,” he shouted, eyes bulging from his sweating, dirt-smeared face, “there is plenty of work for idle hands here. Help us shore up the gate.”

  I was exhausted from lack of food and sleep, and weary of taking orders from this madman. For a moment I hefted the javelin in my hand. Gelimer wore no armour, and his back made for a temptingly exposed target. I could tear Caledfwlch from its sheath as he lay dying, and die with Arthur’s sword in my hand, cut down by enraged Moors while the Heruli stormed their pathetic defences.

  Patience, patience. There was no need for such futile heroics. Laying aside the javelin, I half-heartedly picked up some crumbling bits of masonry and added them to the pile under the gate. My heart started to thump as I heard the sound of Heruli war-horns from outside.

  I wanted to see them, the men I had lived and trained alongside for so many months until I had adopted their ways and almost felt like one of them. Ignoring Gelimer’s shouts, I scrambled up the heap of rubble until my face was level with the parapet over the gate, and peered down into the valley.

  The night was black as pitch, but the line of Moorish torches along the wall cast some light on the men struggling up the narrow mountain trail. As was their custom, the Heruli had painted their shields and their bodies black, so they were once again the “shadowy, funereal host” that excelled at night ambushes. Thus camouflaged, they had succeeded in getting two-thirds of the way up the trail before the Moorish sentries spotted them and raised the alarm.

  They would get no further. There was nowhere to hide on that trail, and the Heruli were exposed to missiles raining down on them from the town and the surrounding peaks. They had huddled together and locked shields over their heads in poor imitation of the ancient Roman testudo. This provided some protection from the storm of rocks and javelins and arrows, but the Heruli lacked the discipline and leadership to advance.

  I cursed and smacked my fist against the rampart. Stricken warriors were tumbling from the path into the fathomless chasms below, and the rear of the column was disintegrating as men turned to flee back down the mountain.

  “Run, you curs, you faithless mercenary swine!” I heard Gelimer scream, “run back to Belisarius and tell him of the whipping you have received! Tell him that the King of the Vandals still has teeth, and shall out tear out his throat if he comes too near Medenes!”

  From the way the king capered and ranted, you might have thought he had won a signal victory, but the rout of the Heruli only delayed the inevitable. Gelimer lacked the men to pursue and destroy them. His Moors numbered no more than fifty or sixty warriors, and were unwilling to risk their lives against a thousand or so of the enemy.

  For his part, Pharas was too wise to try another assault. He settled down to starve Gelimer out, secure in the knowledge that no Vandal armies remained in the field to try and break his blockade.

  Three months dragged past. The hardships of the siege started to affect even the Moors, and a few of the weakest succumbed to cold and starvation. I might have gone that way too, but Gelimer seemed to regard me as some kind of symbol of good fortune, and insisted that I share with him the best of the remaining food.

  Several times I tried to persuade him to surrender, but he was inflexible, and mistook stubbornness for courage. He insisted that with the coming of spring the war would be renewed, and he would be borne in triumph back to Carthage.

  “Like this sword, my people are forged of true steel,” he said, holding up Caledfwlch, “they are used to hardship and misfortune, and cannot be broken by one lucky Roman general and his little army of foreigners and sell-swords.”

  I saw my face reflected in the blade, illuminated by the dying glow of the fire. It was hollow-eyed, pale and sunken, half-covered by a scrubby growth of beard like dirty moss clinging to my chin. A few more days, I thought, and the spirit shall depart from this cadaver.

  God intervened before I finally took it into my heart to murder Gelimer. He sent a vile rash that appeared on the king’s face and hands, and rendered him near-blind by causing his eyelids to swell.

  For a day or two Gelimer bore the pain and disfigurement, but the sign of God’s displeasure was too obvious to be ignored. He sent for me, this pitiable, emaciated wretch of a man, and expressed his desire to make peace with the Romans.

  “But it must be on my terms,” he said, “I will not allow Belisarius to boast that I came crawling to him, begging for my life.”

  “The general does not boast of his victories,” I replied, “he receives all that comes his way with humility and grat
itude, like a good Christian should.”

  The pointed nature of this remark was wasted on Gelimer. “You have stayed by my side, Briton, when you might have deserted me months ago. I do not flatter myself that you have done so through misplaced loyalty. I know what you want.”

  Caledfwlch lay in its sheath by his side. He picked it up, weighed it carefully in both hands for a moment, and tossed the sword at my feet.

  “Yours,” he said, “I give it to you freely, and without condition.”

  Chapter 22

  I descended Mount Papua alone with a verbal message from Gelimer for Pharas. Caledfwlch hung from my hip inside its leather sheath. Not once, all the way from Medenes to the outskirts of the Roman camp, did my hand relinquish its grip on the hilt.

  In typical Roman style, the Heruli had built a fortified camp at the base of the mountain, complete with a timber palisade and defensive ditch lined with stakes. Two of their sentries stepped out from the trees with lowered spears as I approached, but the suspicious glowers on their faces dissolved when they recognised me as Coel, the adopted Briton they had given up for lost. With much back-slapping and congratulations on my survival, they escorted me to the tent of Pharas in the middle of the fortified compound.

  He was no less surprised to see me alive and well, if slightly less effusive. “Coel,” he said, eyeing me warily, “I last saw you at Decimum, just before the Vandals struck our flank. I thought you died there.”

  “I was taken prisoner, sir,” I replied, “for some reason Gelimer took a liking to me, and dragged me about like a piece of baggage. He agreed to release me, in return for three gifts.”

  Pharas scratched his wiry beard. “Gifts? What do you mean?”

  “He asks for a lyre to be sent up to him, with a sponge and a loaf of decent bread. The lyre is so he can once again hear music, to soften the desolation of his heart. The sponge is to treat the swellings on his eyes, and the bread as a palliative against the coarse Moorish stuff he is forced to eat. Those are his words, not mine.”

  “Quite the bloody poet, isn’t he? Well, I suppose we should return the great favour he has shown us. I don’t know how the army would have coped without you.”

  His heavy sarcasm was tinged with suspicion. “Why did the Vandals take you prisoner?” he demanded, “they don’t usually, especially not Romans. What makes you so special?”

  He kept me on my feet, even though I was half-starved and croaking with thirst, while I poured out the story of why I tried to kill Gelimer at Decimum, of my treatment as a prisoner afterwards, my presence at Tricamarum, and the long, painful weeks on Mount Papua. It was an extraordinary tale, and Pharas might not have believed it, had I not drawn Caledfwlch and held it up for his inspection.

  He stared at the sword for a moment. “Give it here,” he said finally, holding out his hand.

  It took a major effort of will to disobey an order from Pharas. His word had been law during my months of training in the camp of the Heruli, and I had seen soldiers flogged or even executed for defying him. But I would not give up Caledfwlch again. I was prepared to die rather than allow it to be taken from me.

  “Are you deaf?” he rasped when I made no move. “Hand it over. Now.”

  I pushed Caledfwlch back into its sheath. “No, sir,” I replied, “the sword is mine. I claim it, not as booty, but as my birthright. General Belisarius will know what I mean.”

  Mention of the general’s name stemmed the angry blood that had flowed to Pharas’s cheeks. “Will he, now?” he said, “I remember you being summoned to the palace, just before the expedition sailed. And you were seen speaking to the general and his wife at Grasse.”

  He poured himself a cup of wine and drank deeply from it. “You stink, Coel,” he said, wiping his lips, “and not just because you haven’t washed recently. You stink of politics. So does that sword. A rank odour. One I have never learned to appreciate.”

  I waited, trembling with cold and hunger, while Pharas considered the best and safest course of action.

  “First, you can have a bath,” he said, “and a shave. A Roman soldier may be bearded, but he has no business looking like a vagrant. Then we had better get some food inside you, and find you a fresh set of clothes. When you are presentable again, you can go to Belisarius at Carthage. He can decide your fate.”

  I sagged with relief, but kept a tight grip on Caledfwlch as Pharas’s guards took me away to be cleaned up. The food was the usual basic soldier’s fare, but I wolfed down the coarse bread and beans as though it was ambrosia, and wallowed in a tub of steaming water until all the dirt and stress of the recent past had seeped from my body. I was given a clean tunic, breeches and a cloak, once the property of a Heruli soldier killed at Tricamarum.

  Pharas allowed me no further time to rest, though I craved sleep, and despatched twenty soldiers to escort me to Carthage. A messenger was sent ahead of us to warn Belisarius of my coming.

  We rode out of the camp, me aboard a spare horse and scarcely able to keep my eyes open, and headed east towards the capital. The journey was uneventful, for the country was largely pacified and my guards well-armed. The city was two days’ ride away, and I had never felt more grateful when we halted for the night. I fell asleep almost as soon as I slid from the saddle, and knew nothing more until a soldier shook me awake, not unkindly, and grunted that we had to move on.

  I had never set eyes on Carthage, perhaps the most famous city in the civilised world after Rome and Constantinople. As at Hippo Regius, the Vandals had allowed its defences to fall into a ruinous state, but Belisarius’s men had strengthened the walls and widened the defensive ditch with impressive speed.

  My first impression, when we arrived on a summit overlooking the Numidian Gate, was of a city deserving of its fame. The Emperor Augustus had ordered Carthage to be rebuilt on the ashes of the city destroyed by Scipio Africanus, and the Vandals had preserved its internal splendour and grace. An ancient citadel dominated the harbour, which was strongly defended by towers and iron chains.

  The city was divided into two halves. The lower half was a maze of narrow streets, shops, storehouses and poor dwellings, packed together next to the harbour and the coast. The upper half, centred on the Roman Amphitheatre, was more salubrious. Here the streets were broader, and crowds bustled around ancient pagan churches that had been converted into Christian basilicas. The wealthiest citizens strolled beside fair gardens and pools decorated with beds of flowers and flourishing palms, nourished by an aqueduct. Other than the sunlight gleaming on the helms of Roman soldiers patrolling the walls, there was little to indicate that Carthage was a conquered city.

  Gelimer’s royal palace was situated close to the Amphitheatre. I found it easy to imagine his tall, spare figure, striding through the colonnaded walkways and shadowy halls, chewing his nails and barking nonsensical orders at subordinates. Soon, assuming he had surrendered to Pharas, he would be brought back to his capital in chains and paraded before his people as a trophy of war.

  We entered the city through the Numidian gate and rode through a widely-spaced suburb towards the palace. My escort handed me over to the guards on the gate, whom I recognised as belonging to Belisarius’s Veterans.

  The Veterans took me to an inner courtyard surrounded by a covered archway. They marched with the brisk, purposeful tread of men who knew they weren’t marching anywhere dangerous. These were no longer soldiers on campaign, but victors basking in the reflected glory of their commander’s triumph.

  There was a garden in the middle of the courtyard, watered by a stone fountain and decorated by a statue of a Carthaginian soldier. His armour was in an antiquated style, and his javelin was drawn back ready to throw.

  Belisarius sat on a marble seat opposite the statue. He had put off his armour, and wore a loose white toga against the baking heat. I had not seen him for months, and thought that the vigours and stresses of the campaign had aged him. His sparse hair was virtually rubbed from his scalp, and his long face had acquired a cle
nched, humourless look, that of a man who had carried too much responsibility for too long. Thankfully, his wife was not present.

  He was gazing at the statue when I was marched into the courtyard. Two of his Veterans remained to ensure his safety, but kept a discreet distance when he beckoned me to his side.

  “Look at this, Coel,” he said, nodding at the statue, “it might be a likeness of Hannibal himself.”

  I glanced over the statue. The soldier wore a muscled cuirass and an ornate Thracian-style helmet with a monstrous plume that swept down almost to his waist, indicating that he was meant to be no ordinary infantryman. His bearded face was contorted in an expression of righteous fury. I could well imagine Hannibal, the great Carthaginian general, looking such when he led his motley armies against the legions of the Republic.

  “Hannibal almost destroyed Rome,” added Belisarius without waiting for my answer, “at Cannae he slaughtered so many of our soldiers that hardly enough men could be found in Italy to replace them. The citizens of Rome gave way to panic and despair, and twice buried innocent people alive as sacrifices to their pagan gods, believing that was the only way to avert the fury of Hannibal. They went so far as to drown a baby in the Adriatic.”

  Belisarius seemed fascinated by the statue. He looked on it for an uncomfortably long time, frowning and tapping his fingertips together.

  “For all his triumphs, Hannibal died alone, rejected and despised by his people and hounded by his enemies. Of all the men on earth, only the Roman general who had finally conquered him, Scipio, made an effort to ensure Hannibal was allowed to die in peace. Scipio was a wise man. He knew his turn would come. In the fullness of time he too was abandoned by the people he had saved, and tasted the bitterness of exile.”

  He gave an involuntary shudder, and his thoughts were plain: my turn will come, one day.

  “All is vanity, Coel,” he said with a dismissive gesture of his hand, “your grandfather would have appreciated that. As he would have appreciated the remarkable achievement of his grandson.”