He leaned forward in his chair and stared deeper into the spitting coals. “God has made my decision for me. Two nights ago I received a messenger from inside Ravenna. Not from Matasontha, but Vitiges. He has agreed to abdicate and surrender his capital to me.”
My jaw dropped at this wonderful news, but Belisarius was not done.
“Mark that, Coel. They have surrendered, not to Rome, but to me.”
“Sir,” I said, “you are Rome. Rome’s greatest living general.”
“No. Not any longer. I am done with Rome, as she is done with me. Vitiges and his council have agreed to surrender Ravenna, and the whole of Italy, on one condition.”
His eyes bored into mine. “They have offered me the crown of Italy, and to resurrect the title of Western Emperor. I will be crowned in Ravenna as King of the Goths and Emperor of the West.”
“Think of it, Coel. I have spent all my career fighting barbarians. Now I shall unite all the barbarian tribes of the West under my banner. Combined with my army and fleet, we shall be unstoppable. I shall march on Constantinople, hurl Justinian and his whore of a wife from the thrones they have disgraced for so long, and purge the court of vipers like Narses and John the Sanguinary. That done, the crowns of East and West shall be united in my person, and the scattered fragments of the Roman Empire re-forged anew.”
I tried to speak, to think. Seized by this incredible new vision, I failed miserably at both.
“You, Coel, are destined to rise higher yet in my favour. I can think of no-one better. When the time is right, and the lost provinces of Frankia and Germania are once again under the sway of Rome, I shall send you to your native land with Caesar’s sword at your hip, and Caesar’s armies at your back. Coel ap Amhar ap Arthur, my magister militum. You shall cross the sea to the island of Britain, drive out the Saxon pirates that infest it, and bring her back into the imperial fold!”
15.
I was sent into Ravenna under a flag of truce, and with a sizeable escort of Belisarius’ Veterans. Officially, I entered the city to negotiate Justinian’s proposed treaty. Unofficially, I was to inform Vitiges and his council that Belisarius accepted their offer, and was happy to betray his imperial master for the Italian crown and title of Western Emperor.
We were met by a Gothic officer and a retinue of lancers, and led to the royal palace, where Vitiges had his headquarters.
The palace was built by Theoderic the Great, the best of the Gothic monarchs. It made me ashamed to think of him as a barbarian. Built on the site of an old Roman palace, it was built of white stone and marble and colonnaded in the old style, a residence fit for Augustus himself.
“A fine place, eh?” said the officer, smiling at me, “or perhaps you expected to find the King of the Goths living in a timber hut, with smoke escaping from a hole in the thatch?”
He was young for his rank, tall and slender and red-haired, with no beard on his chin. I was amused by his conceit. The Goths had long since adopted the manners and customs of civilised folk, and come a long way from their brutish ancestors, who used to live in draughty wooden halls and gnaw their meat with bloody fingers.
I struggled my maintain my outwardly calm appearance, suitable for an envoy of Rome, as I entered the vast, echoing halls of the palace, and trod the beautifully inlaid mosaics decorating the floors of Theoderic’s home. I had seen palatial splendour before. Nothing here rivalled the magnificence of the Great Palace in Constantinople.
My mind and soul were elsewhere. Belisarius had lit new fires inside me. His vision of a new Roman Empire, forged from the shattered remains of the old, was both overwhelming and irresistible.
It was also no idle daydream. Belisarius was a hero to his troops, if not the officers, and they would happily follow him to the gates of Hell. Far lesser Roman generals had won the love of their soldiers, and led successful rebellions against corrupt and incompetent emperors.
It was rank treason, of course. All our necks would be forfeit if the attempt failed. Justinian would show no mercy. For my part, I had no cause to love the Emperor. He had deliberately kept the army starved of adequate supplies and reinforcements, and plainly cared nothing for the lives of the soldiers he used to gratify his own insatiable pride and ambition.
Nor did I fear him. He was no soldier himself, and none of his loyal generals were a match for Belisarius. When our united host marched on Constantinople, Justinian would most likely flee into exile, or throw himself on the mercy of his former servant.
I thrilled to the prospect of seeing his foul wife, the Empress Theodora, loaded down with chains and paraded along the Mese before jeering crowds. She had once murdered a friend of mine, and done her best to serve me the same way. I hated her more than Narses and Antonina and all the rest of my enemies put together.
The officer’s voice broke in on my thoughts. “I said, you don’t have the look of an Easterner,” he said.
“My apologies,” I muttered, “I’m not from the East. I am a Briton in the service of Rome.”
We had reached a large antechamber with a vaulted roof. A huge pair of iron doors, three times my height and inscribed with scenes of hunting and battle, stood closed before us. Two hard-faced Gothic spearmen in green cloaks and twinkling mail flanked the doors.
“A Briton,” he said, “that is unusual these days. Britain has been independent from Rome for over a century.”
I didn’t like his questioning tone, or the intense way he stared at me. “My origins are none of your concern,” I snapped, “I came here to speak to King Vitiges, not engage in idle chat with his underlings.”
He murmured an apology, and said nothing more until the doors swung inward, dragged open by a troop of slaves.
The doors opened onto the throne room, a rectangular hall with a high ceiling and a central avenue lined with rows of black marble pillars. A guardsman stood before each pillar, armed with spear and shield. The avenue was decorated with another gorgeous mosaic, this one depicting a king abasing himself before Christ, and ended in a short flight of marble steps.
The steps led to a dais, upon which King Vitiges sat on his throne. He sat with his chin resting on his fist, and didn’t move a muscle as the officer led me towards him.
Vitiges’ consort, Matasontha, sat beside her husband on a noticeably smaller throne. They made a handsome couple, still young, with the corn-gold hair and blue eyes of their folk. Vitiges was stocky and bow-legged, somewhat shorter than his wife.
Both were dressed in royal splendour. Their brows were adorned with slender royal circlets, and they wore loose mantles of purple silk, lined with gold and fastened at the shoulder with elaborate golden brooches. Vitiges wore a belt made of silver and gold links, carved in the shapes of stags and wild boar. His sword, a broad-bladed weapon with a short blade, hung from his hip in a wool-lined sheath.
There was a terrible sadness in the king’s eyes as he silently watched us approach the throne. This was his last act as King of the Goths, and he knew it.
I halted at a respectful distance and bowed before him. “Your Majesty,” I said formally, “General Belisarius sends his greetings.”
Vitiges shifted slightly. At close quarters, he looked older than I first thought. There was a grey pallor to his roughly handsome features, and a general air of dejection about him. He spoke with none of the royal hauteur and arrogance I expected, but like a man who knew his time was up.
“Has he,” he began, before swallowing, closing his eyes and trying again, “has he accepted our terms?”
“He has, majesty. The crown of Italy, the title of Western Emperor, and the fealty of your soldiers. In return, you will be allowed to go free, and depart from Italy after swearing an oath on holy relics never to set foot in the kingdom again.”
He nodded, and glanced at his wife. “What of my queen?”
I turned to face Matasontha, and the breath caught in my throat. She was a rare beauty, if somewhat faded, and like Theodora relied on the artifice of cosmetics to sustain her
fair looks.
Matasontha was also Theodora’s equal in treachery, though doubtless she would claim all was done for the good of her nation. There was some justice in that. Her husband’s stubborn insistence on fighting the Romans, even after so many defeats and terrible losses, had brought little good to their people.
“Matasontha will retain a portion of her treasure, and also be permitted to go free,” I said, trying not to wilt under the lash of her deep blue eyes, “but will relinquish the title of Queen of the Goths. As King-Emperor of the West, Belisarius will have no other consort but his own wife, Antonina.”
Whether Matasontha had expected more, I cannot be certain, but she suffered the loss of her royal status in dignified silence.
Vitiges reached across to lay a comforting hand on his wife’s arm. She sat rigid, like a statue, and failed to acknowledge his touch.
“So be it,” he sighed, “tomorrow morning, Ravenna will open her gates, and Belisarius may occupy the city. I will receive him here, in this chamber, and hand over my crown.”
I bowed again. “There is something more,” I said after a pause, “Belisarius regards me as a trusted servant, and has granted me a favour. He insists that you fulfil it.”
This was true. I had demanded it of the general, as the price for my betrayal of Justinian.
“Name it,” said Vitiges, looking wary.
“There is a woman named Elene in your household. A Greek, just recently arrived in Ravenna. She has a son named Arthur.”
For the first time, Matasontha showed signs of life. She lifted her proud head and moved her arm away from Vitiges’ hand. Elene was clearly not a name she wanted to hear.
“I want Arthur,” I said forcefully, “you will hand him over to my care and custody. As for Elene, I have no interest in her. She is to leave Ravenna. Tonight. Now. I care not where she goes, but her son stays with me.”
“You have an interest in the lad?” asked Vitiges, momentarily distracted from his own troubles.
“Yes. I am his father.”
According to Procopius, Elene had served Vitiges as one of his whores. If he loved her, he concealed it well, and made no effort to protect her.
“Granted,” he said, looking sadly at his wife. Matasontha was staring straight ahead, over my shoulder. I suspect Procopius was correct. The king’s repeated infidelities had affronted her proud spirit, and caused her to betray him to his enemies.
I was courteously ushered out of the throne room, and given supper in a smaller room leading off the antechamber. Meanwhile Vitiges despatched the young officer and six of his royal guards to find Elene and Arthur.
“They are still lodged in the palace,” he explained, “near my own quarters. Eat and drink your fill, and be comfortable. My men shall soon return.”
Unable to eat, I pushed away the platter of salt beef and sat trembling with fear and nervous excitement. I was going to see my son. After all these years, we would clap eyes on each other for the first time.
Endless questions swirled through my mind. How would he react to me? Would he rush into my arms, or spring at me with a curse on his lips? He must have something of his mother in him. I prayed he had not inherited her gift for hating.
Time crawled past. After an age, the young Gothic officer appeared in the doorway.
Like me, he trembled, and tears coursed down his beardless cheeks. I half-rose, and instinctively reached for Caledfwlch.
“You won’t need that,” he said, his voice full of misery and despair, “Elene is dead. She took her own life rather than spend it without me. Are you content now, father?”
16.
Elene lay in her bath, the blood from her slit wrists gently expanding to turn the water a cloudy red.
She looked peaceful in death, almost serene. The years had left little mark on her, save a few grey hairs in her long, glossy black hair, now unbound and dabbled in blood.
Orphaned as a baby, Elene had been raised in the Hippodrome and trained as a dancer. Her body was as lean and wiry and muscular as ever. I remembered the warmth of it, coiled around me in bed during the distant days of our shared youth.
The warmth and life was gone from her forever. Her dancer’s body was naught but a lifeless piece of meat, floating in dirty water. Her shade had fled, hopefully to some peaceful haven.
The moment I heard she was dead, all my hatred for Elene dissipated like morning mist.
I tore my eyes away from the terrible, pitiful sight, to face her son. Our son.
We were alone in his mother’s quarters. Arthur had dismissed the rest of the guard, and brought me here by himself. I thought he meant to kill me.
“Here,” I said, loosening Caledfwlch in her scabbard and offering him the hilt, “if you’re going to do it, use your great-grandsire’s blade. I won’t try and stop you.”
His face was still streaked with tears. At just sixteen, he was already a head taller than me, and would grow to be a giant. He had his mother’s wiry frame, of the sort that does not carry fat, and the red hair and fair colouring of his royal British ancestors. My heart swelled with grief and pride to look at him. The grief was for myself; the pride all for him. It was obvious, just by his appearance, that my grandsire’s blood ran far stronger in his veins than mine.
He had his mother’s eyes, large and green and fiercely expressive. They fastened on Caledfwlch.
“Caesar’s sword,” he murmured, wiping his face with the back of his gauntlet, “I have heard so much about it. The twin Roman eagles, stamped in gold on an ivory hilt.”
“Your inheritance,” I said, “take it now, if you like.”
Arthur’s gaze lingered my sword for a moment. Then he drew himself up, towering above me, and patted the hilt of the spatha hanging from his hip. “I have my own sword,” he replied sternly, “and have no interest in old heirlooms.”
“When you saw my mother, lying dead in the water,” he asked, “what did you feel? Shame? Guilt? Or nothing at all?”
He rapped out the questions like an officer used to command. The harsh, soldierly tone concealed the undoubted pain ravaging his soul.
“Sadness,” I answered truthfully, “but no shame or guilt. Elene chose to leave me, all those years ago. She chose to betray me, to lie to me, to try and have me killed. She betrayed her employers, and the Empire, and eventually ran out of places to hide.”
I shook my head, trying not to look at the thing in the bath. “You knew her better than I, but it seems to me Elene tried to use treachery as a weapon. Unlike others, she lacked the skill to wield it.”
Arthur’s index finger tap-tapped on the hilt of his sword. I watched it closely, waiting for him to draw steel. I was testing him, seeing how far he could be pushed, trying to divine his feelings for Elene.
“She never betrayed me,” he said quietly, “for years we led a vagabond life, wandering Anatolia and Syria, begging for our keep most of the time. We often had little to eat, but that little always went to me first. My earliest memory is of her weeping with hunger as she pushed bread into my mouth.”
It was too much. I lifted my hand in a silent plea for mercy.
“Why?” I burst out when I could trust myself to speak again, “why did she leave me? There was no need for such hardship – no need to expose herself, and you, to such suffering! I would have provided for both of you.”
To my astonishment, Arthur laughed. It was the bitterest laugh I ever heard, full of contempt and mockery, and the last thing I expected to hear. His mother’s body lay cooling in the bath, just a few feet away, with a bloody knife lying on the flagstones beside the stone tub, and yet he laughed.
“She didn’t want you!” he cried, “she didn’t want to be any man’s wife, looking after his hearth and home, preparing his meals, submitting to his desires in bed. My mother was a lone wolf, angry and frustrated with the limits placed on her sex. She should have been born a man. What a soldier she would have made!”
He looked at me pityingly. “She didn’t love
you. She loved nothing and no-one, save me.”
Suddenly I was angry. “Very well, she didn’t love me,” I retorted, “but I did nothing to incur her hatred. Why did she try to have me killed outside Naples?”
Arthur hung his head, and ran a hand through his thick mop of red curls.
“I don’t know, for certain. I suspect she held a grudge against you for putting a child in her belly. Nature compelled her to love me, so she turned all her anger and resentment on you. No-one could hate like Elene. When I was eight years old, she turned her hand to killing for money. An assassin, hiring out her services to the highest bidder. Turned out she had a rare talent for it. A passion for dealing death. We lived well, until she took service with Antonina, and failed her once too often.”
“And you?” I asked, “did she teach you to hate?”
“I was always a disappointment to her in that regard. She tried to turn me into a killer, to teach me the ways of the assassin. No-one suspects a child, do they? I could slip poison into a man’s drink, or a subtle knife into his back, and escape before anyone noticed I had gone. I refused to do it. Why should I? I had no cause to hate anyone.”
“Still, she kept me by her side through the years. As I grew, I became her protector, her shield against the buffets of the world.”
He eyed me with a cynical smile on his lips, far too cynical for one so young. “I suspected who you were, as soon as you told me you were British. Your continued survival drove her mad. In the end, she decided you were not quite mortal, and that she was fated to die by your hand.”
“But she died by her own,” I said heavily.
“Yes. She preferred death by the knife, in the warm and comfort of her bath, than the humiliation of being defeated by you. Disgraced Roman senators used to open their veins in the bath. I believe she was following their example, and tried to make a noble end.”
“I was ready to kill you in the throne room,” he added, “even though I knew you were my father. If you had asked Vitiges to put Elene to death, I was going to draw my sword and run you through the heart. Vitiges would have executed me, of course, but I cared little for my own life. I could not see my mother end on the gallows, or by the headsman’s blade.”
Flame of the West Page 10
