Reinforced by the Burgundians, his nephew drove our hopelessly outnumbered forces from Perugia and laid siege to Milan. Vitiges continued to dig in at Ravenna, and despatched men to garrison and fortify a chain of fortresses running down the spine of central Italy, down to Orvieto, almost within sight of Rome.
Belisarius was obliged to reduce every one of these fortresses, as well as other stubborn Gothic outposts scattered about the country. He got little help from Narses, who remained at Rimini, stuffing himself with figs and hatching fresh plots with his friend, John the Sanguinary.
At last, in the depths of December, the main part of our army laid siege to Orvieto, a massive fortress town a few miles north of Rome. It was built upon the flat summit of an isolated hill made of volcanic tuff, with steep, almost vertical sides making it inaccessible from all sides. The natural defences of the tuff cliffs were reinforced by high walls and strong towers, and the town was manned by thousands of Goths.
Confident in their lofty position, and well-supplied with grain, the garrison refused all demands to surrender. For weeks we sat and shivered at the foot of the cliffs, while our siege engines lobbed rocks at the flinty walls, and the Goths responded with showers of javelins and curses.
All the while I thought of Ravenna, and Arthur. I seemed destined to get no closer to either.
One frosted morning I was sat outside my tent, sunk in misery as I tried to warm my chapped hands over a fire, when Procopius strode into view.
“The general wants to see you,” he whispered, his breath misting in the cold air, “hurry along, in God’s name, before my blood freezes over.”
Procopius was a creature of warm climes, and always suffered in the cold. Despite being wrapped up in several layers of shawls over a fur-trimmed hooded mantle and robe, his lips were blue, and his teeth chattered.
I followed him to the general’s pavilion, where Belisarius was bathing his feet in a bowl of steaming hot water. He had picked up a cough, and was attempting to drown it in spiced wine.
“Coel,” he said, peering up at me from his cup, “you look well. The healthiest man in the army. You Britons must have iron constitutions.”
“Our island is foggy, raw and damp, sir,” I replied, “we are raised to endure cold. It’s the heat I struggle with.”
He broke off into a fit of violent coughing. “Damn this chill,” he spluttered, wiping his eyes and banging his thin chest, “and damn this siege. Why can’t the Goths simply accept they are beaten, and sue for peace?”
“They are a proud race, sir,” said Procopius, “Vitiges is the proudest of them. He won’t be beaten until you have him in chains.”
Belisarius flapped a hand at him. “Never mind Vitiges. I didn’t summon you both here to talk of him. Read this.”
He picked up a tattered, water-stained letter and shoved it Procopius, who unfolded it and read silently, his bony brows knitted together.
“God curse him,” he said quietly, handing the letter to me, “and consign his twisted soul to Hell.”
I read but slowly, and had to pick through the words with my index finger. The content was chilling enough.
Milan had fallen. Belisarius had written urgently to Narses at Rimini, pleading with him to send troops under John the Sanguinary to relieve the siege, but the eunuch had demurred, claiming that John had fallen sick with fever.
With no relief on the horizon, the Roman governor of Milan, Mundilas, had surrendered to the combined army of Goths and Burgundians.
“Mundilas obtained terms for himself and his soldiers, but none for the citizens,” I read out, “the barbarians sacked and destroyed the city, slaughtering all the men they could find and taking the women and children as slaves. The bishop, Datius, escaped, but the prefect was captured and thrown into a cage full of wild dogs. The animals tore him into pieces and devoured him. Every church was plundered and fired, and the priests themselves massacred at their altars.”
I folded the letter, unwilling to read anymore. “If there is one consolation,” said Belisarius, “the loss of Milan means the end for Narses. I have already written to the Emperor, complaining of the eunuch’s failure to send men to relieve the city. Justinian will surely recall him to Constantinople, and I will be left with a free hand in Italy.”
“You may be sure Narses has also written to the Emperor,” said Procopius, “putting his own side of the story, and doing his best to blacken you. He is high in favour at court. I fear Justinian will put more faith in his account.”
Belisarius winced, stifling another cough, and bade us both sit down. “You two are my friends,” he said, “my real friends. The only ones I can trust. I will tell you something now, and want it to remain a secret between us. Understood?”
I exchanged glances with Procopius, and we both nodded obediently.
“Good. Procopius, you are usually the first to know my secrets, but not in this case. For weeks now, I have been in correspondence with Matasontha.”
Mathasontha was the Queen of the Goths, and consort to Vitiges. It seems they were not a very faithful or loving couple. She responded to his many infidelities by sending treasonable letters to the Romans.
“She has made me all kinds of offers,” he went on, “anything to put an end to this war, to her advantage of course. I will not bore you with the details, save to mention that she even offered to murder her husband and take me in his stead.”
He smiled bleakly at our shocked expressions. “A tempting offer, to enter into matrimony with a barbarian murderess. It would also require me to dispose of my poor wife. I refused, as gracefully as I could manage.”
I wondered what Antonina would have made of it, and whether Belisarius yet knew of her adultery. If so, he could have put her aside and wed Matasontha, but he loved his appalling wife far too much to even contemplate such a thing. Every great man has a failing. Antonina was his.
“The time will come,” said Belisarius, “when the whole of Italy is reduced, and we can finally march on Ravenna. I know that city. She is virtually impregnable, and it would take months, years even, to reduce her by siege and blockade. If I can induce Matasontha to betray Vitiges, and open the gates without a fight, so much the better.”
“So far my messengers to her have proved loyal, but they are mercenaries. Hired men, who work for gold. None of them has any love for me. I believe you do, Coel.”
I blinked. Belisarius was staring intensely at me, as though willing me to agree. “I am loyal until death, sir,” I blurted out, unable to think of anything better.”
He nodded. “I know. For that reason I have promoted you, well above what some may regard as your natural station. For that reason I will use you as my envoy to Matasontha. You have never failed me yet.”
It sounded like dangerous work, but as always I was in no position to refuse. I bowed my head in acceptance.
“No-one else must know I am in contact with the Goths,” he said earnestly, “some of my captains would call it treason. Others would use it as an excuse to undermine me. Our ranks are riddled with traitors and conspirators.”
He dismissed me, promising I would be despatched on my first mission very soon. In the meantime I would go about my normal duties and guard my tongue. I left him talking in hushed whispers with Procopius, feeling more like an expendable pawn than ever.
Belisarius got what he wanted. Even Justinian could not ignore the disastrous loss of Milan, and as winter drew to a close he recalled his favourite to Constantinople. His friend John the Sanguinary was recalled with him, and I entertained hopes they might be exposed to the Emperor’s wrath.
Narses could not be snared. He managed to clear both their reputations without too much difficulty, and resumed his duties as imperial treasurer, devoting his energies to enriching himself at the expense of the state.
Free of this hindrance, Belisarius’ old energy and purpose returned in a flood. Orvieto fell at last, starved and battered into submission, and he flung himself into the task of reducing the re
maining Gothic citadels.
I followed him through all the long, wearisome sieges that followed. Our army trudged from one stubborn fortress-town to the next, smashing aside the Goths and their allies when they tried to oppose us in the field. By now, after almost two years of constant warfare, the Roman army was a disciplined and effective war-machine, almost fit to be ranked alongside the illustrious legions of old.
Then the hammer-blow fell. At the beginning of summer, when it seemed the tottering Gothic cause was beyond hope of recovery, terrifying news sped down from Liguria.
“Two hundred thousand,” Belisarius said dully, “twice the number of men Vitiges brought to lay siege to Rome.”
There was a dreadful, flat quality to his voice, a tone of almost careless despair. He had survived everything fate and his enemies could throw at him, and come within a whisper of final victory, but at the last God had deserted the Roman cause.
The frantic, last-ditch diplomacy of Vitiges had borne fruit. Theodebert, King of the Franks, had brought a vast army over the Alps to join with the Goths and Burgundians in Liguria. The Franks were a numerous people, and their mighty host rolled through the snow-capped mountains like an avalanche, into the fertile plains beyond.
Belisarius looked sick at the news. The council of war he had hastily summoned was a decimated gathering. Almost half our officers were dead, slain in the never-ending series of battles and sieges.
“If these reports are true, we can’t fight such an army,” croaked Bessas, a dried-up, wizened shell of the man he had once been, “we must ask for peace, and hammer out terms with Vitiges.”
“We can fight them. We will. We must.” said Belisarius in the same lifeless tone. “The Franks are even more undisciplined than the Goths. Do not be dismayed by their numbers. They have few cavalry, save their king and his attendants, and their infantry are peasants, poorly-armed and trained.”
“Two hundred thousand peasants are a formidable prospect,” said Bessas.
“I have heard disquieting rumours of their axe-men,” added Hildiger, “they carry double-edged battle-axes, capable of cutting a horse and rider in two with one blow.”
The news of the Frankish invasion had dealt a severe blow to morale, and Belisarius was unable to raise the flagging spirits of his officers. I said little during the meeting, but was again summoned to his presence afterwards.
“I can’t trust any of the others to deal with the Franks,” he said, “they are broken reeds, all of them. Even Bessas.”
He had shaken off his cough, but still looked ill and tired, and trembled slightly as he faced me. “The Franks cannot be allowed to advance unchecked through Liguria. Even now Theodebert is moving towards the River Po. I have troops there watching his progress, but they are far too few to bar his passage.”
I could guess what was coming next, and braced myself. “Six thousand men are all I can spare. I cannot go north myself until Osimo has fallen, so a trusted subaltern will have to lead them against the Franks.”
“I thought you wanted me for an envoy, sir,” I said weakly.
“So I do, Coel, so I do. But this present crisis must be dealt with first. Push back the Franks, and Rome will heap you with honours. I will make sure of that. The Emperor will reward you with a triumph in Constantinople, as he rewarded me after the conquest of Africa.”
I was tempted to say the Romans would be honouring a corpse, but it would have done me no good. Through my own caution and unwillingness to stand up to the general, I had earned his absolute trust. Now he was relying on me to defeat a massive invasion of Frankish warriors, led by one of the most ruthless barbarian kings of the age.
Just how ruthless, I was about to discover.
13.
My little army marched north into Liguria, towards the region of the Po where the vast Frankish horde was said to be massing. Belisarius was aware of my friendship with his secretary, and sent Procopius with me.
“He said I am a lucky talisman,” said Procopius, “no Roman army has tasted defeat while I was present.”
“It must be down to your skill at arms,” I said drily. I had watched my friend practising with the spatha, and narrowly avoid cutting his own foot off.
“You have never seen me fight in earnest,” he retorted, shaking his skinny fist, “just wait. The Franks shall flee before me like fire. Theodebert will beg for mercy before my flashing blade!”
Procopius strived to keep up my spirits as we neared the town of Pavia. Our scouts had reported the presence of our cavalry near the town, as well as a squadron of Goths. Both sides were watching the Franks on the other side of the river.
It was difficult to predict Theodobert’s intentions. He had crossed the Alps in response to his kinsman Vitiges’ pleas for aid, but he was a greedy, self-serving warlord, always with an eye to his own profit. His army was big enough to crush all of us – Goths, Burgundians, Romans – and seize Italy for himself.
We were still some miles from Pavia when his motives became clear. A troop of horsemen came flying down the highway in wild disorder, straight towards our vanguard.
“They are ours,” I said bleakly, shading my eyes to make out their banners, “Huns, I think. Looks like they have taken a beating.”
I counted eleven riders. A few horses with empty saddles trailed behind them. The fugitives had no way of going around us, and so ploughed to a halt in a storm of dust and confusion.
“Well?” I demanded when their shame-faced captain trotted forward. His helmet was gone, his mail hauberk smeared with blood, and his eyes had a familiar haunted quality: those of a man who had witnessed slaughter, and barely escaped with skin and soul intact.
He cleared his throat, and saluted. “The Franks have crossed the river, sir,” he croaked, “they fell upon us without warning. We tried to make a stand, but there were too many. They attacked the Goths as well, and drove them back towards Ravenna.”
Procopius gave a low whistle. “So Theodobert has betrayed his ally. What faithless scum these barbarians are. Then again, why not? He has enough men to defeat all of us.”
“What of their numbers?” I asked, trying to suppress the rising tide of panic in my breast, “is the Frankish host as big as they say?”
The captain ran a shuddering hand over his face. “Yes, sir. Like a plague of locusts, covering the land as far as the eye can see. Nothing but banners, and hordes of barbarian warriors, filling the air with their accursed chanting…”
He was clearly a broken man, and I dismissed him to the rear with what remained of his command. I beckoned at Procopius to ride a little way forward with me, out of the hearing of my subalterns.
“What should I do?” I hissed, “I can’t offer battle against such a horde. What do you know of this Theodobert? Is he a better soldier than Vitiges?”
Procopius nodded grimly. “A better soldier, and a shrewder and greater man in all respects. He won’t be fooled by our paltry war-tricks, as we fooled Vitiges at Rimini. Theodobert is a wolf, and will tear our throats out if we let him.”
He glanced at the barren fields beside the highway. They were untilled, the peasants who usually worked the land either dead or driven off. No crops grew on the parched soil, where there should have been a ripe yield of golden corn.
Vast stretches of the Italian countryside were equally afflicted, the natural rhythms of the seasons disrupted by the ravages of war. As a result, thousands of peasants were condemned to starve, or swell the numbers of beggars in the towns.
“We can’t fight the Franks,” Procopius said softly, “but we don’t need to. Nature can fight them for us.”
I took his meaning. The Frankish host was enormous, and would have to live off the land. Thanks to the poor harvest, there was precious little for them to take. In time, hunger and famine would achieve what our swords could not.
I ordered the retreat, back towards the nearest Roman garrison at Fiesole, a fortified hilltop town inside Tuscany. The walls were strong and well-maintained, and I
counted on being able to hold the place against a siege.
There we awaited the onset of the Franks. Liguria was now laid open to them, and they devastated the region with typical barbarian savagery, carrying fire and slaughter to all corners.
Uraias abandoned the province, fleeing back to his uncle at Ravenna with his remaining troops. Exulting in his conquest, Theodobert picked Liguria clean, though he found little to please him in the burned and blackened ruins of Milan.
The summer of that year was unforgiving. A heat haze settled over the land. Nothing grew, and such scanty crops as had been planted withered and died in the fields. The dreaded but inevitable spectre of famine stalked the countryside, bringing starvation and the bloody flux to the country folk.
“The Franks will also be suffering,” said Procopois as we stood together on the walls of Fiesole one evening, watching the blood-red sun dip below the hills, “Theodobert will have to break up his army, or lose it.”
I sent out riders to observe the enemy, and they brought back encouraging reports. The Franks were indeed suffering. Desperate for food, they had stormed and ransacked every settlement they could find, butchering the inhabitants and – if some of the more lurid accounts were to be credited – occasionally eating them.
The news brought me little joy. Belisarius had entrusted me with the task of driving the Franks from Italy, but instead I had taken refuge behind high walls and abandoned the people I was supposed to be protecting.
“There is nothing you can do for them,” Procopius assured me when I voiced my guilt, “even if you had somehow defeated the Franks, you cannot fight famine. Whether by starvation or the blade, the people of Liguria and Tuscany are doomed to perish.”
He was a hard-headed man, practically devoid of compassion, but I was forged of softer metal. Finally, when I could bear the shame no longer, and was haunted by the screams of dying Italians in my dreams, I gave the order to march out.
“I will do my duty,” I said firmly, “and meet the Franks in the field, as I should have done weeks ago.”
Flame of the West Page 8
