Flame of the West

by David Pilling

  “Vitiges is looking north,” Procopius said confidently, “all his attention is fixed on Rome. He pays no heed to what is happening behind him. Fool! Belisarius is lucky in his enemies. Not one of the barbarian kings he has faced is his equal in war.”

  This was true, though Vitiges, King of the Goths, enjoyed a reputation as an able and ferocious soldier. I had never even seen him, though he was said to be a typical chieftain of his race, tall and auburn-haired and dripping with gold ornaments.

  John the Sanguinary was less of a toy soldier than he appeared. He was careful to despatch scouts, to look for any sign of the Goths. They returned at a hard gallop when we were some five miles south of Rome.

  “General Belisarius has sallied out from the Pincian Gate,” one reported breathlessly, “almost his entire garrison is engaged with the Gothic host, in pitched battle on the plain before the city.”

  John’s carefully plucked eyebrows shot up. “Not as cautious as you thought, eh?” I remarked, and returned his frown with a grin. In days of old I might have been flogged for insolence to a superior officer, but the legendary discipline of the Roman army was much decayed.

  “It is a distraction,” said Procopius, “Belisarius must have learned of our arrival, and has engaged the Goths to give us time to reach Ostia and meet up with the fleet. When he learns we have safely passed through the enemy lines, he will withdraw back inside the city.”

  John hesitated. The city lay to the north-east, and we were following the section of highway that led straight to the port of Ostia. Just visible to the north was the section of ruined aqueduct that Vitiges had partially repaired and turned into a fortress, guarding the approach to Rome.

  “You,” said John, stabbing a finger at me, “remind me of your name.”

  “Coel ap Amhar ap Arthur,” I replied promptly.

  “Ah, yes. The general’s tame Briton. I have heard something of you. Brave and loyal, they say. Let us test those qualities. I want you to take five hundred men – the ones we levied in Campania will do – and ride north-east to assist Belisarius. The rest of our force will continue north and press on towards Ostia.”

  I stared at him, regretting my insolence of a moment earlier. “But, sir,” I protested, “I am a mere infantry officer, and have never commanded more than ten men in the field.”

  He smiled lazily at me. “Then here is an unrivalled opportunity to prove your worth. You ride rather well for an infantryman. Let us see how you lead.”

  John was the commander, and there was no gainsaying his orders. I turned away, trying to ignore the jealous stares of the more senior captains who should have been sent in my stead.

  Procopius touched my shoulder. “He thinks you will fail,” he whispered, “but I have every confidence in your ability. Do well, and you may receive your promotion sooner than we thought.”

  My orders were to lead my new command north, straight through the heart of the Gothic camp, and do as much damage to the enemy as possible before withdrawing. I was fairly certain John didn’t care about our fate – I was a mere Briton, a barbarian from the distant north, and my men were the scrapings of local garrisons – but wanted to ensure he got his two thousand cavalry to Ostia.

  Feeling giddy, I put myself at the head of the levies and glanced up at their banner, flapping limply in the slight wind. It displayed the double-headed Roman eagle, worked in golden thread against a red field.

  I had followed the eagle in a series of bloody campaigns, from North Africa to Sicily to Italy. For much of that time I had fought as a common soldier, free of the burden of rank and responsibility. My one stint as an officer, in charge of a handful of Heruls and Isaurians, had been mercifully brief. Arthur’s blood ran in my veins, but not his natural talent for leadership.

  Now John the Sanguinary had put me in charge of five hundred cavalry. My guts rumbled in panic as I trotted to the head of my new command. Swallowing, I raised my arm and nodded at the trumpeter to give the signal to advance.

  I led them on at the canter, skirting the ruins of the aqueduct and aiming for some open, flat ground with a large timber stockade to the north-west. If the Goths should suddenly spring on us, at least we would have room to manoeuvre.

  Tattered Gothic banners displaying their crude symbols of the horse and the bull flapped from the walls of the stockade, and the upper levels of the aqueduct-fortress.

  I glimpsed a few helmeted heads, and expected the timber gates of the stockade to yawn open at any moment, disgorging thousands of screaming Gothic cavalry. They are fine horsemen, though they have no mounted bowmen as good as our Huns and Heruls, and enjoyed a massive advantage in numbers. Over a hundred and fifty thousand Goths were encamped around the walls of Rome, an entire nation in arms.

  Nothing happened. The sentries ducked out of sight, and we thundered on past endless rows of empty tents and doused cooking fires.

  It was unnerving. The whole of that vast encampment, spread out on the fields south of Rome, was emptied of troops. It was not deserted: we rode past tents full of sick and wounded men, and somewhere a war-horn sounded the alarm, but there weren’t enough soldiers left to oppose us. We might have plundered the baggage wagons and set the rest of the camp on fire, but I was no freebooter, and stuck to my orders.

  The sound of a gathering storm lured us north, towards the walls of Rome. As we drew closer, the sounds became more distinct; the rumble of hoofs, the shrieks of terrified horses and dying men, the scrape and clash of weapons - war-cries, screams, conflicting orders, war-horns sounding advance and retreat, the zip of arrows and barrage of drums. All the noise and chaos and terror of battle. It was a familiar, heady, intoxicating din, both terrifying and appealing, quickening a man’s blood at the same time as driving him almost mad with fear.

  I halted on a little rise overlooking the battlefield, drinking in the sight and sound of slaughter.

  Thus far in the Italian campaign, Belisarius had suffered only one defeat in battle against the Goths, and this was down to the cowardice and indiscipline of the Roman citizens who insisted on fighting alongside our men. He had learned his lesson, and I compare the battle I witnessed before the walls of Rome that day as akin to a skilled boxer holding off a heavier, clumsier opponent.

  Our horse-archers swarmed forward, isolating bands of Gothic footmen and riding around them in circles. Stranded, the Goths could do nothing but duck behind their large wooden shields as arrows rained down on their heads.

  The slow, heavily armoured Gothic cavalry lumbered forward, but our men swiftly retreated in good order, behind the safety of their own footmen. These were drawn up in six disciplined phalanxes in front of the Pincian Gate.

  Despite his overwhelming advantage in numbers, Vitiges’ only chance of victory was to break the iron wall of Roman infantry. He threw his horsemen against the lines of shields time and again, like waves lashing at a rocky shore. Time and again the Goths were repulsed, leaving the broken bodies of men and horses strewn about the bloody, churned-up ground. Any gaps in the Roman infantry squares were quickly filled, plugged with fresh bodies from the reserves Belisarius had drawn up behind the front lines.

  I could see the general’s banner, fluttering above the heads of the infantry. His golden-armoured figure would be at the head of his bucelarii, elite Roman cavalry, waiting for the Goths to tire so he could lead them forward in a shattering, all-out charge. It was the same tactic he had used against the Sassanids at Dara, and the Vandals at Tricamarum, and on both occasions proved devastatingly successful.

  It was midmorning, and the fighting had been going on some time. I thought Belisarius had advanced dangerously far outside the gates, beyond the defensive cover of the ditch. The Goths were concentrating their attacks on the exposed flanks of his infantry. If these were smashed the entire Roman line might be rolled up and destroyed.

  Directly in front of my position, not thirty feet away, were the rear lines of the Gothic reserves. They were mostly infantry, armed with long spears and hea
vy shields, and had their backs to us.

  I had to act before they noticed our presence. For a terrifying moment I was seized with indecision, the curse of men promoted beyond their station and ability. The blood ran cold in my veins. My fingers froze on the hilt of Caledfwlch, and the order to charge dried up in my throat.

  Shaking with terror, I had enough presence of mind left to nod meaningfully at the trumpeter. He raised the curved bugle to his lips and blew a long, sharp blast, causing my horse to rear and toss her head in panic. I fumbled with her reins, my fingers slipping, and she bolted, straight towards the Gothic lines.

  “Roma Victor!” I croaked. The strangled cry was taken up by my men, and then they were surging after me, baying like hounds racing in for the kill.

  We were among the Goths before they knew what had hit them. I managed to regain control of my horse, and steered her with my knees, Herul-style, stabbing right and left with Caledfwlch.

  My panic ebbed away. The Gothic spearmen scattered, their ordered ranks dissolving into a mob of confused and frightened men, taken unawares as they watched the battle unfold before the gates of Rome. They outnumbered my levies at least three to one, but we had the advantage of surprise.

  I did my best to make it count, urging my horse deeper into their squadrons, bellowing like a mad bull. Caledfwlch was slippery to the hilt with barbarian blood, and my men did terrible execution, fanning out to strike down the fugitives with spears and spathas.

  We carved a lane right through the centre of the Gothic army, until I found myself in the heart of the storm, surrounded by fighting men, on foot and horseback, stabbing and hacking at each other. Great clouds of dust rolled and billowed across the field, tinted by red mist. Bodies lay everywhere, twitching and bleeding in their death-throes. The ground was littered with broken weapons, fallen standards and bits of abandoned gear.

  A division of Gothic cavalry were entangled with some of our infantry and a unit of horse-archers. My levies had crashed into the heaving, surging combat, and now all was confusion. Officers rode about like lost sheep, losing sight of their commands as Roman and Gothic banners dipped and mingled in the throng, a meaningless riot of colour.

  I was fighting for my life, and had little idea of the general progress of the battle, but was later able to piece events together.

  Belisarius had deliberately advanced too far beyond the Pincian Gate, and exposed his flanks to a Gothic counter-attack. Vitiges seemed to have forgotten who he was fighting, and blundered straight into the trap. At about the time my levies were making short work of the Gothic spearmen, Belisarius had sounded the retreat, and his entire army started to withdraw. Smelling blood, the Goths pursued with wild abandon, thinking they had the Romans at their mercy.

  I knew little of what was happening, having lost touch with most of my command in the general chaos. The trumpeter and standard bearer had stuck close to my side, and I looked around for some high ground, where I might try to rally my scattered men.

  A blast of trumpets and bucinae rose above the hellish, ear-splitting noise of battle. I glanced north, and saw the Roman banners moving away, back towards the grey walls of Rome. The eagle was retreating.

  The Goths uttered a great shout of triumph, and the sea of bodies around me gave a violent lurch, as though a powerful current had run through it. I found myself carried along, helpless against the tide, crouched low over my horse’s neck as enemy warriors stampeded past me, chanting their war-songs.

  To raise my head in that heaving mass meant death. Somehow my horse kept her footing, and not one Goth stopped to turf me out of the saddle. They had a greater quarry to chase.

  When the din had died down a little, I risked looked up, and found myself alone. The plain around me was deserted, save for a few scattered corpses and the occasional riderless horse, peacefully cropping at the trampled grass.

  I gently turned my own horse about, and looked upon the destruction of the Gothic army.

  The Romans had fled with all speed to the Pincian Gate, hotly pursued by the enemy. To the west, close to the banks of the Tiber, lay the Flaminian Gate, which Belisarius had ordered blocked up with rubble. I remembered doing my part to seal the gate, sweating in the Italian sun as I heaved lumps of stone onto the pile under the arch.

  Unknown to me, and certainly to the Goths, Belisarius had ordered the stones removed during the night before the battle. As the Gothic cavalry rushed towards the walls, hoping to cut down our fleeing soldiers and force entrance into Rome, a single trumpet-blast rang out on the parapet.

  The Flaminian Gate rumbled open and the bucelarii charged out, a thousand lancers in shining lamellar armour, their bright pennons and streamers flying in the wind.

  They hit the Gothic cavalry in flank. Horses and men vanished under the impetus of their storm-charge, and entire squadrons were smashed to pieces, the survivors scattering in all directions. The bucelarii were supremely disciplined. Instead of pursuing they plunged into the crumbling ranks of Gothic infantry.

  I had seen them at work before, at Tricarum, where their repeated charges broke the back and the spirit of the Vandal host. Belisarius had spent much of his personal fortune on their training and equipment, his elite cavalrymen, modelled on the heavily armoured lancers used by the Sassanids in the East. Any one of them was a match for ten ordinary soldiers, and was an expert with lance, bow and sword, as well as a consummate horseman.

  As at Tricamarum, I was privileged to watch them from a distance. They tore the Goths apart, slaughtering the hapless infantry like pigs and giving them no respite to rally and re-form. At the same time Belisarius led his personal guard in a counter-attack from inside the Pincian Gate, and the tottering Gothic host was caught between two fires.

  By now some of my levies had returned to the standard, though at least half were missing, either dead or plundering the defenceless enemy camp.

  “What do we do, sir?” asked my standard bearer. He was just a lad, beardless, fresh-faced and trembling with excitement, and clearly dying to strike his blow.

  Hundreds of Goths were fleeing back across the plain, making for the safety of their stockades and entrenchments. They looked like a panic-stricken mob, all discipline and courage gone, their banners and weapons left sprawling in the dust.

  I had seen enough of war to know what happened to those who tried to get between fugitives and safety. Even the worst coward can show fight if denied his last refuge.

  “We withdraw,” I said, ignoring his look of disappointment, “back to the Appian Way.”

  I gave the order, and led my remaining men west, to rejoin John the Sanguinary.

  4.

  We caught up with the convoy on the last stage of its journey to Ostia. I reported the news of Belisarius’ victory before the gates of Rome, though refrained from mentioning my own modest role in it. A vain man himself, I sensed John was quick to spot vanity in others, and would not give him an excuse to think me arrogant.

  “You did reasonably well,” he said when I had finished my report, “and it is good to know the general has made our task that much easier. Plenty of Goths killed, eh?”

  “Hundreds, sir,” I replied, “but merely a drop in the ocean. Belisarius lacks the numbers to inflict a significant defeat on them.”

  John stroked his carefully oiled and combed whiskers, and gazed west, towards the sea. Our fleet was hugging the coast, on its way to meet the convoy on the southern bank of Ostia. The northern bank, along with the harbour, was still in the hands of the Goths.

  We had to devise a way of getting the supplies of corn and wine into Rome. His gaze switched from the west to the convoy, the long, meandering line of ox-drawn wagons lumbering along the highway.

  “Those beasts will be done in by the time we get to Ostia,” he muttered, referring to the teams of oxen. Our advance was rapid, and the drivers were pushing the animals hard, lashing and cursing them with equal vigour.

  To the rear of the convoy, escorted by twenty Hunnish lancers and
drawn by a team of white horses, was Antonina’s litter. The silk curtains were closed, protecting her from the dust and stink of the convoy. It was all too easy to imagine her lithe form reclining on cushions inside.

  Perhaps her new lover Theodosius was lying beside her. I envied the man, without wishing to swap places with him. Only a fool, or one blinded by lust and ambition, would dally with that lethal woman. If Belisarius found out, as he surely would eventually, he would feed Theodosius to his dogs. Usually a merciful man, I had seen Belisarius when his temper was roused, and still shuddered at the memory of the Vandal spy he had impaled on an iron stake outside the gates of Carthage.

  The convoy reached the meeting point at Ostia without mishap, to find the fleet already disembarked and three thousand Isaurians encamped along the southern bank. They were in good spirits, though the journey from Constantinople had been long and fraught with danger, and grateful to be on dry land again after months at sea.

  John summoned a council in the evening, which all captains were required to attend. No-one invited Antonina, but she came anyway, borne on a divan carried by four sweating Huns. I avoided her gaze, and she never even glanced at me. Her lover Theodosius, young and handsome in the old-fashioned Greek style, with curling fair locks and a neatly trimmed beard, stood behind the divan in a silver helm and cuirasse polished to mirror-like perfection.

  Despite his soldierly appearance, everyone present knew what he was, and ignored him. No officer worth his pay was about to heed the suggestions of Antonina’s bedmate.

  The council had barely started before an alarm sounded, and there was a disturbance to the east: men shouting, horns blowing, and the sound of racing hoofs.

  “What’s happening, there?” shouted John. For a moment it seemed we had fallen prey to an ambush. A line of torches blazed into view, heralding the arrival of a band of armed riders.

  The alarm and consternation died down when their banner became visible, displaying the familiar double-headed eagle of Rome. Under it rode another familiar sight, Belisarius himself, mounted on his white-faced bay. She had carried him through all his campaigns, from Syria to North Africa, Sicily and Italy, and enjoyed almost as much fame as her master.