Underneath she must have been seething with frustrated spite and bloodlust, and eager to see my guts spilled in the arena. Narses and the rest of the courtly rabble were obliged to stand at a respectable distance behind the Emperor’s chair.
Justinian muttered something to the steward, who gestured to a line of musicians standing at the foot of the imperial box. They blew a shrill fanfare on their bucinae, which was the signal for us to turn our chariots and drive to the starting line.
Until now I had not so much as exchanged a glance with Leo. Our eyes met, and he said something that I couldn’t hear above the roar of the crowd. In return I sent him the curses of the Gods. The insolent bastard winked and blew me a kiss, which earned him a few cheers from the stands.
Theodora had made sure he was well-equipped. His chariot shone with fresh black and gold paint, and his horses were muscular, high-stepping thoroughbreds. They wore purple plumes on their brows, a blatant sign of the Empress’s favour.
We took up our positions at the starting line, which was marked out in white paint. Two soldiers stood either side of the track. They each held three plumbatae, and handed one apiece to myself and Leo. I tucked mine into my belt, so I had one hand for the reins and another for my whip.
Relative silence fell over the Hippodrome as the Emperor rose from his seat again. He held aloft a white baton instead of the usual cloth.
My senses seemed to heighten as I waited for it to fall. In those brief seconds I noted the dull, heavy look in Theodora’s eyes, and a scratch-mark on Justinian’s cheek. Domestic strife, thought I, and then the baton came down.
The roar of the crowd burst the heavens as I whipped my horses into action. All my old training took over as they surged into a gallop. The barrage of thousands of Roman voices faded to a dull, meaningless buzzing in my ears. The light body of the chariot bounced and shuddered beneath me, and I had to concentrate to keep my balance.
I plied the whip a little a more, but speed was not important here. As the chariot rounded the first curve, I shifted the reins to my left hand, thrust the whip into my belt and withdrew the plumbata. I carefully weighed the savage little dart and drew it back ready to throw. The Heruli had trained me in their use. Now it seemed that the long hours on the drill-yard outside Constantinople were about to come to fruition.
Leo’s chariot came in view when I reached the straight. His horses were going at a hell of a pace, and he was still plying the whip on them until our chariots were less than twenty feet from each other. A born showman, he placed his reins between his teeth, took out his dart and cast it at me, all in one smooth movement.
I was partially blinded by the sun and almost too late to duck as the slender missile arced towards my head. The iron tip struck my helmet with an almighty clang, just an inch or so above my left eye. It spun away harmlessly, and in sheer panicked reaction I cast my own dart as Leo’s chariot thundered past.
My throw was wild and hopelessly wide of the target. I knew Pharas was in the stands, and imagined him cursing my shameful lack of nerve and accuracy. It could not be helped, and I had enjoyed a fortunate escape. Taking out my whip again, I flogged my horses to try and reach the line and gather the second plumbata before Leo.
He was a better charioteer, and his horses were superior to mine. His chariot was racing across the line while mine was still entering the straight, and I had to steel myself to drive straight at him and hope his aim was as poor as mine.
Leo must have had ice in his veins. His throw was strong and precise, and I only avoided the worst by hurling myself to one side. The lead-weighted dart hit my breast and stuck fast in the links of my mail, but failed to penetrate.
I tried to right myself before the chariot overturned. Too late I saw Leo’s whip arm come up – he had placed his reins in his mouth again – and the knotted leather flails slicing at my face. I managed to turn my head aside in time, so they scored against the cheek-piece of my helmet, but the impact was enough to make me lose my footing. My fingers were jerked loose from the reins, and I tumbled backwards into thin air.
I twisted as I fell and landed badly on my right arm. A hot tingling sensation spread from my elbow to my shoulder. There was no pain, not at first, but a wave of terror and despair hit me when I struggled to my feet and tried to flex the fingers of my right hand. They refused to move. My elbow was splintered, and my forearm and hand hung limp and useless.
Leo could have finished me with off his third dart, or simply had his horses gallop over me, but I was saved by his vanity. While I clumsily tugged out Caledflwch with my left hand, he brought his chariot to a halt and slowly stepped out of it, raising his arms to draw the acclaim of the fickle crowd.
His part in the riots was forgotten now. The Romans thought they had a new champion, and cheered themselves hoarse as he drew his spatha and advanced towards me. He wanted to kill me on my own terms, in single combat, to prove himself the better swordsman as well as charioteer. The better man.
I backed away from him, willing myself to ignore the triumphant smirk on his face and concentrate on his movement. He made a sudden rush, raising his sword double-handed above his head, and chopped at my shoulder.
The blow was slow and amateurish. I avoided it easily, and had my right arm been whole I could have stabbed at his throat. As it was, I had to back away and look to get on his blind side. He was right-handed and had no idea how to defend himself. Whether that was down to lack of training and experience or overconfidence, I cannot say, but it gave me my best chance.
Leo chopped again at my upper body, trying to beat me down with the heavy edge of his spatha. I caught his blade on Caledfwlch, turned it away with a roll of my wrist and backed away again, unwilling to risk a thrust with my weaker left hand. He spat at my apparent cowardice and came in at a run, this time thrusting his sword like a spear at my leg.
I let him come, deliberately exposing my flank. At the last moment I stepped aside, let the blade slide past and pinned his wrist with my arm. His sword-hand was now trapped between my hip and forearm, and I took the opportunity to butt him in the face with the protruding ridge of my helmet.
Leo was no stranger to street-fighting. White-hot agony shrieked through my genitals and lower abdomen as he brought his kneecap up into my groin.
The pain was almost enough to make me vomit. I released him and staggered backwards. Through a mist of tears I saw his nose now resembled a burst tomato, and blood drooling from his mouth. He must have accidentally bitten his tongue when I butted him.
His eyes were full of wild rage. He came at me again like a bull, his spatha raised to chop me clean in half. Sheer terror overrode the pain in my groin. I lurched sideways to avoid the blow, felt the wind as the long blade whipped inches past, and tried to stab Leo’s exposed flank. The thrust was feeble and awkward, and Caledfwlch scraped harmlessly against his mail. His spatha whirled at my head. I ducked and received his knee again, this time to the underside of my jaw.
I grunted, and felt teeth crunch and splinter as I fell onto my back. Leo loomed above me like the shadow of an avenging spirit, his spatha raised in both hands to plunge down into my gut.
The Heruli had taught me never to give up a fight as lost, even if I was on my back in the dirt. I kicked out with both legs, a move Pharas had shown me, and swept his left leg from under him.
Leo fell on top of me. His face smacked into mine, and for a moment we struggled in an obscene parody of a lover’s embrace. I tasted his blood on my lips. His screams were dreadful to hear, the more so for being so close, and my left hand and wrist were suddenly warm and soaking.
He bucked and shuddered and went still. His mouth gaped wide in a silent howl, his eyes stared at nothing. I looked down and saw he had impaled himself on Caledflwch, which I had held upright when he fell. The sword had burst through the links of Leo’s mail and drilled through the layers of wool and flesh beneath. Its bloody tip protruded from his back.
With a final burst of strength I rolled his de
ad weight off me. The fight had probably lasted less than a minute, but it seemed like hours since I had tumbled from my chariot. I had forgotten all about the arena and the crowd.
Reality came flooding back as the Hippodrome erupted in wild applause. The Romans had wanted to see blood. They had got it, and now rose in acclamation of the supplier. I looked to the imperial box, and saw Belisarius rise from his seat.
He pointed at me and mouthed my name. Not the false name attributed to me by Theodora, but the name my parents gave me. My true name. The crowd took up his shout. It spread like fire through the stands.
“Coel! Coel! Coel!”
I felt sick and weary. My legs shook, and it took a huge effort of will to remain standing. Caledfwlch was still buried inside Leo, its blood-spattered hilt standing upright and gleaming in the warm sun.
“Coel! Coel! Coel!”
Behind the shouts of the Romans I thought I heard the triumphant shouts of British warriors. They were chanting my grandfather’s name on the slopes of Mount Badon. Somewhere in Heaven or Hell or the Otherworld, Arthur’s grim countenance broke into a smile of approval.
I was free of him at last.
END
AUTHOR’S NOTE
“Caesar’s Sword: The Red Death” was inspired by my desire to write a story that meshed together the later history of the Roman Empire and some of the more little-known aspects of Arthurian legend: specifically the Welsh tales, which are very different from the French medieval romances that modern audiences are perhaps more familiar with.
In the standard version of the tale Arthur’s downfall is brought about by Mordred, his bastard son by his half-sister, Morgana. Mordred is usually depicted as Arthur’s only son, but in the Welsh traditions he has three: Gwydre, Amhar, and Llacheu. Their mothers are not named, and all three come to sticky ends in battle. Amhar, as the extract from Nennius’s Historia Brittonum at the beginning of this book claims, was slain for unknown reasons by his own father.
I used this mysterious filicide as the basis of my tale, which otherwise draws heavily on the extraordinary career of Flavius Belisarius, the great latter-day Roman general who won astonishing victories in the afterglow of Rome’s glory. He is not often depicted in fiction, and I very much wanted to write my own version of the man and attempt to recreate the glittering, deadly environment of sixth-century Constantinople.
The adventures of Coel ap Amhar, Arthur’s troubled grandson, and Belisarius are far from done yet, and they will march again…
Caesar's Sword (I): The Red Death Page 23
