The sorry campaign drew to a miserable and shameful end for Rome. Belisarius was recalled, again on the pretext of being needed in the East, and after his departure the whole of Italy was lost to Totila. Most of our remaining garrisons were exterminated, and the native Italians – the same people had cheered the arrival of our fleet from Sicily, just a few years previously – hailed the all-conquering Gothic king as their new sovereign.
I might have ended my days in Constantinople, grumbling, as old soldiers do, over the follies of their superiors, but largely content. I was not short of worldly wealth, and I still had my son.
I was deceived. God, as I have said, allows the blood of Arthur no rest.
In the deep winter of the year five hundred and fifty, in the twenty-third year of Justinian’s reign, Flavia was brought to bed of another child.
I had advised them not to try again. Flavia was weakened by the previous tragedy, and I feared her insides were damaged.
Arthur would not listen to me, and Flavia meekly obeyed her husband’s wishes. He was determined to have a son, to carry on the unbroken blood-line of British princes.
“Before God, I regret I ever told you of your ancestry,” I said bitterly, “I would rather see your wife alive, and happy, than risk her for the sake of our family. The line of kings was broken long ago, Arthur. Even your great-grandsire never laid claim to a crown.”
He proved stubborn, and I wondered if Elene’s shade was working through him, exacting her long-delayed vengeance on me.
If so, she got her wish. Flavia endured another excruciating labour, and produced another stillborn child. To twist the knife in Arthur’s wound, the child was another daughter.
This time, there was nothing the Greek physician and midwives we had hired could do to save Flavia. She would not stop bleeding, and died in the small hours of the morning, without seeing the pathetic fragment of dead flesh she had brought into the world.
24.
My son was a changed man after the death of his wife. For three days and nights after the funeral he kept to his room, refusing to eat or drink or speak to anyone. When he emerged, drawn and haggard and with a world of pain in his eyes, the bright youth I had known was quite gone.
I was surprised by the depth of his grief, since he never seemed to care overmuch for Flavia in life. Like his mother, Arthur possessed depths and twists to his character I was incapable of divining.
With nothing left to keep him in Constantinople, he revived his ambition to join the army. “You cannot persuade me otherwise this time,” he said as he broke his three-day fast, “I need to get away from this city and all its ghosts.”
There was iron resolution in his voice, and I lacked the will to fight him. Flavia’s death, and the loss of my second grandchild, had opened fresh wounds in my battered soul.
“You must do whatever you think is right,” I replied, “whatever your decision, you have my blessing.”
After he had forced down a morsel of bread, he went to the fireplace and took down Caledfwlch. The sword had hung there for many years. I had not touched it since. Nor had anyone save the servant tasked with polishing the blade and keeping it sharp.
“It has a weight to it,” he said, running his hand gently along the blade.
“The weight of souls,” I replied, “of blood and death. Caledfwlch has ushered hundreds of men into the next world.”
I looked at the thing with distaste, and a twinge of fear. Once precious to me, my grandsire’s sword was now a reminder of past terrors and disappointments. I was still plagued with dreams of slaughter, half-buried memories of the battles I had witnessed in Africa and Italy.
“All those dead men,” I said, “and for what? Belisarius may as well have stayed at home and grown cabbages. All his victories and conquests have crumbled away like a hollow pile of sand.”
“That is the truth of war, my son. Men march away, and not all of them come back. They leave nothing but shallow graves, mourning widows and fatherless children.”
Arthur held Caledfwlch up to the light streaming in through a latticed window. “A grave for Constantine,” he said, “a grave for Aurelius; a grave for Uther. All the world’s wonder, no grave for Arthur!”
He was reciting a snatch of verse I had taught him, long ago. I got it from some of the Germanic mercenaries in the Roman army, who in turn heard it from their kin in Britain. Arthur, the enemy of their race, who had piled up heaps of their slain at Mount Badon, was now one of their heroes. All the world, it seemed, was embracing the tales of my famous ancestor.
“I care not where they bury me,” my son said, with more than a trace of bitterness, “let me rot on some distant battlefield. The ravens can pick at my bones. As for my wife and children, they have gone before.”
“But I have not,” I said quietly.
For the first and perhaps only time, I managed to inspire a little pity in him. He returned Caledfwlch to its hook and caught me in a fierce embrace.
“I will make you proud, father,” he whispered. I wanted to reply that he already had, but the breath was crushed from my lungs.
Arthur took to training with the citizen levies, who drilled regularly on the plains outside the city walls. I was unsurprised to hear he excelled at every form of weapons exercise, as well as horsemanship, and drew praise from the tough veterans who oversaw the drill.
Meanwhile the Emperor was seized by a rare burst of energy and competence. He shook off his mourning for Theodora, put aside his wrangling theologians, and took measures to reverse the catastrophe in Italy.
Still, nothing on earth could persuade him to restore Belisarius to rank and favour. The general was detained in Constantinople, a free man but constantly under the shadow of imperial displeasure, spared from destruction only thanks to his wife, who exerted a strange influence over Justinian.
Having put aside his only great general, Justinian cast about for someone to replace him. First he chose his nephew Germanus, then changed his mind in favour of Liberius, a decrepit civilian with no military experience, then to an Armenian named Artaban, then back to Germanus.
“Vacillating ninny,” sneered Procopius, who had returned to Constantinople with his master, “he will end up appointing his horse as commander-in-chief. A dumb beast can scarce be a worse choice than Liberius.”
Eventually Justinian settled on his nephew, and sent him to Sicily with a fleet. Germanus had a mixed reputation, having fought well against the rebels in North Africa, but fled before the fury of the Sassanids when they descended on Antioch. Justinian had succeeded in marrying him off to Matasontha, the ex-Queen of the Goths, so he also enjoyed some popularity among her people.
“Germanus will fail,” Procopius said confidently, “Totila will give him a good thrashing, and he will run back to uncle with his tail between his legs.”
“I want to join the army bound for Sicily,” Arthur announced. Procopius, who was fond of my son, stared at him in horror.
“Don’t be so damned stupid,” he rasped, “you may as well fall on that old sword now and save yourself the trouble. Germanus won’t achieve a thing.”
In the event, Germanus died, of a fever he picked up in Sicily. Plunged back into the depths of grief by this unexpected loss, Justinian was driven to extremity, and chose for his general an ageing, deceitful, twisted little half-man.
“Narses!” Procopius informed us, almost choking on his mirth, “he is going to send Narses to rescue Italy! Now may God help Rome, for the Emperor has failed her.”
25.
I was appalled by the Emperor’s decision, and tried to forbid Arthur from joining the army. Any campaign led by Narses, I argued, could only end in total disaster.
“He is a crippled eunuch, a greasy, shamelessly corrupt courtier, a master of wiles and treachery and every foul trick,” I said forcefully, “the little bastard can’t even ride, with his twisted legs, but has to be carried everywhere in a litter! A fine leader, to take a Roman army into the field! Are we to rely on
the Goths laughing themselves to death when they set eyes on him?”
Arthur was unmoved. He was twenty-six years old now, in the prime of youth and manhood, and this was his time.
“You can forbid me nothing, father,” he said calmly, “though I honour you for your love and concern. I will go to Italy, with or without your blessing or permission.”
I am not a demonstrative man, but his icy stubbornness drove me into a rage. I raged and cursed, and broke furniture, and threatened to have him clapped in irons if he refused to listen to reason.
Arthur waited patiently for the storm to blow itself out. I may as well have expended my wrath on a statue, for all the effect I had on him.
For a moment I despaired, but then an idea struck me. “Very well,” I said, when I had control of myself again, “if you go, I go.”
Arthur was rarely taken aback, but I was gratified to see him blink. “What? You mean to join the army again? Father, you are too old.”
“And,” he added, poking me in the belly, “too fat. Fine living has been the ruin of you.”
Insolent whelp. If he wasn’t quite so big, I would have taken my belt to him.
“I would never re-enlist,” I said, thinking myself very cunning, “but the army will need horses. Lots of horses. No doubt a good part of our stock will be requisitioned. I mean to take them myself, and see the poor beasts are not ill-used. We paid good money for them, after all.”
He looked at me incredulously. “You, who once commanded Roman troops in the field, mean to follow the army as a horse-trader?”
“Why not?” I shrugged, “or a quartermaster, maybe. Even a cook. An army marches on its stomach.”
“Not for long, if exposed to your culinary skills,” he retorted, but there was nothing he could say or do to stop me. We had reached an impasse, and had to make the best of it.
Since Arthur was set on joining the army, I tried to secure a good berth for him. I still had some influence with certain high-ranking officers, old comrades from the wars, and exerted it to get him into the cavalry.
This presented little difficulty. Arthur was the very image of a promising young officer, and rode as well as anyone. He was appointed a centenar, in command of a hundred Herulian horsemen. This was my choice. I knew the Heruls well, their customs and fighting style, from my time in their camp.
“They are a rough lot, with some strange beliefs you must never try to change or interfere with,” I advised my son, “above all, they respect courage and horsemanship. Lead from the front, try not to fall off your horse, and you should deal very well with them.”
The preparations for the campaign were encouraging, and revealed the extent of Justinian’s perfidy towards Belisarius. Narses, having witnessed the general’s fate in Italy, refused to accept the command unless given adequate supplies of men and money.
Justinian refused his favourite nothing. He emptied the imperial coffers to please him, raising levies from Thrace and Illyria, six thousand Lombard mercenaries hired from their King, Alboin, and three thousand Herulian cavalry. To these were added further auxiliaries, hired at Narses’ personal expense, and even a detachment of Sassanids, refugees who had deserted Nurshivan and fled into imperial territory to escape his wrath.
In all, the army amounted to no less than thirty thousand men, twice the size of anything Belisarius was ever entrusted with. With such a host at his command, he might have achieved his dream of re-conquering the entire Western Empire, and raised the name of his Emperor to deathless heights of glory. But Justinian was not the man to realise such ambitions. The brief moment passed, and I believe the empire will never recover its old power and prestige.
Narses surprised me. Twelve years had passed since he briefly led a small Roman army in Italy. Since then he had done no soldiering (unless playing chess counts) and showed no obvious interest in reviving his military career.
Now, handed a fresh opportunity by Justinian, he threw himself into the task with a skill and energy I would have thought beyond him. Perhaps he had spent his time devouring the histories of old wars, but his conduct of the early stages of the campaign could not be faulted.
The Goths controlled the seas off the east coast of Italy, so there was no chance of launching another seaborne invasion. Instead Narses ordered the army to march to Salona, an ancient city on the Dalmatian coast, and from there to the head of the Adriatic Gulf. It was a long march, but meant the army could invade Gothic territory from the north, avoiding their fleet.
During all the bustle and preparations for war, Narses found time to send me a brief note. It arrived at my house, carried by an insouciant Egyptian slave, as I was making my final arrangements for departure:
I knew you would serve me at the last.
Congratulations on the appointment of your son. I will observe his progress with great interest.
- Narses.
I scrunched the parchment into a ball, dropped it on the ground and crushed it underfoot.
“There is my reply,” I said, grinning up at the Egyptian. He returned the grin with interest.
“My master warned me you might not be polite,” he said, “especially when I repeat the verbal part of my message. When we reach Salona, you and your son are to join our fleet stationed there.”
“What fleet?” I demanded, “my understanding was that the army would march north and invade Italy by land.”
“And so it shall. But it will take many months to reach the Gulf, and the Goths are already blockading our last ports on the Italian mainland. They must not be allowed to fall.”
“Croton and Ancona,” I said. He gracefully nodded his sleek, perfumed head before continuing.
“Just so. Totila is most impertinent. Even now, fifty of his warships blockade Ancona, while some three hundred other vessels are raiding the coast of Epirus and the Ionian Islands.”
“And I’m supposed to stop him, am I?”
The envoy gave a mannered little chuckle. “No, no, though your contribution is appreciated. My master has ordered forty Roman ships to muster at Salona. They will sail to engage the Gothic fleet at Ancona, and on the way be reinforced by ships from Ravenna.”
In spite of all our losses in Italy, we had at least managed to hold onto Ravenna, the capital.
“I still fail to see why my presence is required,” I said, “or my son’s. He is a captain of horse, and we are both quite useless at sea. Who commands the fleet from Ravenna?”
“Valerian.”
I vaguely knew of him, a tough and capable veteran, and one of the few to serve Belisarius faithfully in Italy.
“And at Salona?”
The envoy’s smoothly handsome face split into an infuriating smirk.
“John the Sanguinary.”
26.
I tried to comfort myself. After ten years it seemed unlikely that John still held a grudge against me, especially since he had risen high in the Emperor’s favour, whereas I had sank into obscurity.
Besides, Arthur was right. I was fat, and fifty, and badly out of condition from my shameful habit of gorging at table. The long, weary march from Salona to the Gulf, through the disease-ridden Dalmatian marshes, was not a happy prospect.
Nor could I disobey orders. If not a soldier, I was still in the service of Rome, and Narses was the commander-in-chief. He might have had me killed at any time, if he so wished, but instead preferred to torment me from afar. Such was the price I paid for refusing to desert Belisarius for his service, all those years ago.
“I am in for a sea-voyage,” I informed Arthur, “with a battle at the end of it.”
He paled. Like me, he loathed and dreaded the sea. “To what end?” he demanded, “my Heruls are no use at sea. They will be needed to fight the Goths in Perugia.”
I smiled bleakly. Narses had thought of everything, and his slave had furnished me with all the details before leaving my house.
“You are to stay with the army,” I explained, “but I am needed to help relieve Ancona. The garr
ison has been under siege for months. They are running low on food, and taken to eating their horses. I am to sail with the fleet with my stock, to replace the animals lost to famine.”
Arthur seemed lost. We had barely spent a day apart for over ten years, ever since I brought him to Constantinople. All that time I struggled to understand him, and we never grew as close as I would have liked, but he had come to rely on me.
“You wanted to go,” I said, clasping his hand, “to prove yourself. Now is your opportunity. We shall meet again, when the army reaches Ravenna.”
I tried to sound optimistic, but the chances of us meeting again were slender. The march from Salona, all the way around the Adriatic coast, would take many months, while our army would have to fight its way through hordes of Goths.
In addition, there was no guarantee our fleet would defeat Totila’s. Both sides had an equal number of ships, and the Gothic admirals were said to be able men.
Our army marched from Constantinople, the first landward departure from the city I had experienced. The people gathered to cheer as our troops marched down the Mese with all the grand panoply of war, trumpets playing, cymbals clashing and banners waving.
My son took his place among the mounted Herulians in the vanguard, while I stayed far to the rear, riding in the back of a baggage wagon. From there I could keep a careful eye on my horses, over forty pureblood young stallions from Hispania, just recently broken.
The eyes of the people lining the streets were all for our soldiers. None paid any heed to me, the fat greybeard taking his ease on a straw bale in the back of a cart, but I carefully scanned the sea of faces. I was looking for Belisarius, wondering if he had ventured from his house in disguise, and come to watch the army march away.
“The army he should be leading,” I muttered. There was no sign of his lean, bearded face among the crowds. Eventually I gave up and settled back to contemplate the heavens.
Flame of the West Page 14
