I thought Asbad fixated on mere plunder, but he had it in mind to slay a king. “Forward, if you wish to be rich men!” he shouted, clapping in his spurs and urging his horse down the rocky slope.
Seeing his intention, the Masterless Men gave a great shout and spurred after him. I followed, grateful for the opportunity to get closer to the battle – and Arthur – and to put an end to Asbad.
The Gothic army was in full flight, thousands of fleeing horse and foot scattered across the plain. Asbad and his men galloped through them, riding over those who failed to get out of the way in time, hacking down the few who showed fight.
I made no attempt to strike at the fugitives. There was only one man I wanted to kill that day, and I kept my eyes fixed on his back.
The Masterless Men intercepted Totila and his guards on the western edge of the plain. Only five men remained to the wounded king, but these five prepared to sell their lives dearly, forming a protective circle around him.
Asbad hung back while his followers tore into the hopelessly outnumbered guards. The skirmish was brief and bitter, and nine Masterless Men died before the five were slain.
They died well, those men, and their bloody-handed killers honoured them by immediately plundering the corpses. The thieves growled and snapped at each other, fighting for the possession of rings ripped or cut from dead fingers.
Seeing Totila alone and defenceless, Asbad struck. He charged in, spear levelled, and impaled the king’s body, through the gap between the dented plates of his cuirass.
Totila slumped over his horse’s neck, coughing blood, while Asbad wheeled away in triumph.
“I killed the king!” he shouted excitedly, “I killed the king!”
His celebration was short-lived. I galloped in behind him, judging my aim carefully, and unleashed a scything cut at his neck.
It was a sweet blow. My sword was an ugly, ill-balanced thing, but with a finely honed edge. It cleaved smoothly through the back of Asbad’s thick neck and neatly sliced off his head.
The head span away, eyes glazing, mouth still stretched in a frozen grin. I saw it land and bounce a couple of times, before a fleeing horse trod on it. The skull burst like a rotten melon, scattering what passed for Asbad’s brains all over the trampled earth.
None of the Masterless Men made any effort to avenge their chief. They were distracted by plunder, and three of the most avaricious, including Agramond, were already tearing at the body of Totila. They fought over his rich vestments, spattered with blood and mire, and Agramond dragged the jewel-encrusted scarf from his neck.
He would have made off with it, but one of his comrades struck at him with a sword, cutting off his left arm at the elbow. The bloodied scarf fluttered to earth, along with Agramond’s severed limb. I was minded to leave the thieves to their work, but then we were overrun by a tide of yelling horsemen.
They were Huns, despatched by Narses to capture Totila and bring him back alive as a valuable prisoner. Furious at seeing him dead, they set about butchering his killers.
Outnumbered and outmatched, the Masterless Men were slaughtered. I clung to my horse’s right side, determined not to raise my head, and was swept away in the swirling mass of fighting men and screaming horses.
“Kill these pigs! Just kill them!” someone howled, and I saw a Roman officer cut with his spatha at a robber’s face. The heavy chopping edge sliced away the top of his victim’s head, leaving only the lower part of the jaw intact.
The officer wore lamellar armour over his chest and thighs, liberally stained with blood, and had lost his crested helmet in the fighting. I would have recognised his lean, greying, sharp-nosed face anywhere this side of Hell.
“Bessas!” I shouted, my voice cracking as I tried to make myself heard, “Bessas – it’s me, Coel! Roma Victor!”
Bessas reined in, blood dripping from his sword, and looked around. He was never one for smiling, but I thought the corners of his sour little mouth hitched up a little when he spotted me.
“So it is,” he said, as though my presence was nothing remarkable, “and after all this time you still neglect to salute a superior officer!”
32.
Bessas was in command of the Huns, and managed to restrain them from killing me. Instead they sated their bloodlust on my erstwhile comrades.
I had spent many months in the company of the Masterless Men, but cannot honestly pretend I felt a shred of pity for them. They were criminals of the lowest stamp, thieves and murderers and rapists, and rode with Death constantly grinning at their shoulders. At Taginae, his skeletal hands gathered them up.
When all was over, and the Huns had gathered up the body of Totila, Bessas escorted me to the Roman lines. Dusk was falling as we picked our way over the wreckage of the Gothic army. Weary but victorious Roman soldiers were moving among the piles of bodies, looking for fallen comrades and finishing off wounded Goths.
“A familiar reek,” he remarked, lifting his long snout to sniff the rank air, “blood and death and terror. You and I have sampled it on a fair few battlefields, eh?”
I was in no mood to reminisce about past campaigns. “Bessas,” I said anxiously, “what do you know of my son? Did he survive the battle?”
“Never fear. Arthur came through it without a scratch, and distinguished himself into the bargain. Did you see him repel that first Gothic charge? I found myself wondering who his real father was.”
He spoke in jest, and I was relieved enough to laugh with him.
We reached the northern edge of the battlefield, where the Gothic cavalry had broken their teeth on the Roman shields. The Roman infantrymen had broken up into their respective tribes, and something like a festival atmosphere had settled over the army. Men laughed and joked around their campfires, their good humour fuelled by the barrels of ale and mead and wine Narses had supplied them.
There was a slightly hysterical edge to their laughter. These men were the ones who had survived, and come through the battle unscathed. If you listened hard, you could hear the distant screams of their wounded and dying comrades in the medical tents, where our surgeons were practising their art.
I noticed Bessas was taking me to the grand central pavilion, where the banner of the eagle flew in triumph.
“I have no wish to see Narses,” I said, halting, “he thinks I’m dead. Let him.”
“You could not hope to deceive him for long,” replied Bessas in his matter-of-fact way, “and you must come, if you wish to see your son. Arthur is in the general’s pavilion. Narses has invited him to dinner, along with any other officers who distinguished themselves today.”
I might have feared a trap, but this was Bessas, one of the most honest men in the Roman army, even if that wasn’t saying much. With a sigh, I followed him to the pavilion.
Narses was still guarded by his toy soldiers, richly-armoured gallants with crests on their silver helmets. I responded to their stares with a sneer and a rude gesture, and laughed when one reached for his sword.
“Careful,” I said, “the rust might make the blade stick.”
He went red, but Bessas caught my arm and led me inside before any further pleasantries could be exchanged.
The interior was just as tastelessly opulent as I remembered from my last meeting with Narses at Ancona. Added to the rich carpets and stench of incense was the warbling of a young male singer in the corner, accompanied by a girl plucking on a lyre. They looked like siblings, with the same angelic faces and crisp blonde hair, and were probably slaves, bought by Narses at great expense from the market in Constantinople.
Their gentle music was all but drowned by the coarse laughter of soldiers, sitting or sprawling on a number of divans arranged in a rough circle in the middle of the pavilion. The wine was flowing, and had been for some time judging by the drunken conversation and coarse jests flying about.
Narses was lounging on the smallest of the divans, wearing a plain white robe with a silver circlet on his brow. His friend, John the Sanguinary
, sat at his right hand, dressed in a manner which might have been considered extravagant by an opium-addled Persian whoremaster. He was a vision in rich silks of many hues, green and gold and crimson and God knows what else. Pale gold rings flashed on his fingers of his right hand as he delicately stifled a yawn. No mean soldier himself, the company of soldiers evidently bored him.
I cared nothing for either of them, and looked eagerly among the crowd of red faces for my son.
Arthur had already spotted me. He rose from his divan and strode across the floor to embrace me, his face glowing with wine and joy.
“Father!” he shouted, “is it really you?”
Unlike most of the others, he still wore his armour, and Caledfwlch was bound to his hip. I submitted to his crushing embrace, wincing as I felt my ribs creak, while he roared and pounded me on the back.
The Bear of Britain, they used to call my grandsire, or so my mother told me. Arthur senior had been a big, fearsomely strong man, and his descendent was no weakling. I was glad of that, but also needed to breathe.
“Loosen your grip a little,” I wheezed, “else my lungs will pop.”
He subsided, still laughing, and held me at arm’s length. His green eyes sparkled, and for a moment I fancied his mother was looking at me through them.
“They said you were dead,” he said, giving me a shake, “drowned off the coast of Sena Gallica. God’s bones, how I wept for you! Where have you been all this time?”
His bull-horn of a voice rang in the silence. The din of music and conversation had died away, and over Arthur’s shoulder I saw Narses watching me with a cold glitter in his eyes.
“I see a ghost has come to join our little celebration,” said the eunuch, “one I thought laid to rest at the bottom of the ocean, many months ago.”
I gently pushed Arthur aside. “I am no ghost,” I replied, “but solid flesh and bone. Bessas, prove it.”
Bessas gave one of his rare grins and punched me on the arm.
“Coel is alive,” he declared, “if a trifle bruised.”
Narses steepled his fingers and glanced sidelong at John, who was glaring at me with an expression I can only describe as two parts disbelief to one part sheer hatred.
“Well, well,” said Narses, “perhaps you walked ashore across the seabed. You are a hard man to kill. No wonder Britain proved so difficult to conquer, if all the natives are like you.”
“You admit it, then,” I said accusingly, “you admit deliberately plotting my death at Sena Gallica, by placing me aboard one of the condemned transports.”
Narses gave a little shrug. “Not at all. I bear you no particular ill-will, though you have proved relentlessly stubborn in your refusal to serve me. It was John who tried to kill you at Sena Gallica. If you had been in my employ then, I would not have allowed it.”
John’s handsome head snapped around, and he glared venomously at his friend. “Damn you!” he hissed, “you dare accuse me of such a thing, in public, in front of fellow officers?”
“I accuse you of nothing,” Narses replied, unmoved, “I state it. I am in command here. Everyone present would do well to remember that simple truth.”
He inclined his oversized head to his left, to a man who looked like a high-ranking barbarian, with long yellow hair and drooping moustaches. His intelligent blue eyes studied me carefully, and Arthur, and occasionally dropped to look greedily at Caledfwlch.
“This is Pharamond,” said Narses, “an envoy from Theodobald, King of the Franks. He is our honoured guest.”
I failed to see the envoy’s relevance, but Narses never said or did anything without a carefully planned reason.
“Theodobald is a young man,” he prattled on, “a very young man indeed, just sixteen years old, and new to power. I am glad to say he is a sensible youth, and wishes to be a friend to Rome. Hence the presence of Pharamond, who witnessed our victory today.”
“The young king seeks to learn wisdom from history. He has read of the exploits of his warlike forebears, and eagerly devours the legends and chronicles of other nations. Including those of your own fair isle, Coel.”
I kept a careful eye on Pharamond while Narses talked. The envoy had a lean and wolfish look about him, and kept toying with the hilt of his sword.
“Your return was an unlooked-for gift from God,” Narses continued, “I see that now. Theodobald is gathering not only wisdom, but all the relics of the ancient world he can find. Relics, as everyone knows, hold power.”
“The sword,” growled Pharamond, “the sword that belonged to Caesar, and was forged by the gods. Give it to us.”
I looked to Arthur, whose face had darkened with anger. “What is this?” he cried, clapping his hand to Caledfwlch, “you mean to give my inheritance to some barbarian chieftain? Not while I live!”
“Nor me,” I said, moving to stand beside him. “Caesar’s sword belongs to our family.”
I looked to Bessas, but the veteran stood silent, frowning into his grey beard. He had always lacked for resolution, and was one of those who failed to support Belisarius when the general needed him at Ravenna.
The other officers were all young men, bold and valiant in their way, but hopelessly drunk, and unable to comprehend what was happening. Narses held us all in the bowl of his hand.
“Caesar’s sword is the property of the Empire,” Narses squeaked, “as the Emperor’s chief representative in Italy, it is mine to dispose of as I see fit. King Theobald has heard the stories of your famous ancestor, Coel, and wants his magic sword. He thinks it will bring him good fortune in war.”
His eyes narrowed to slits. “It is also the price Theobald demands for not supporting the Goths in this war. They are all kin, these barbarians. Unless we give him the sword, he will lead a hundred thousand warriors over the Alps into Roman territory. There will be no famine to stop them this time.”
“Come,” he added, spreading his hands, “it is only an old sword, after all. Place it on the carpet at Pharamond’s feet, and let us all be friends.”
I became aware of the presence of armed men at my back. Narses’ guards had shuffled into the pavilion. At least one of them, I knew, would relish the chance to stick his sword in my liver.
A tense silence filled the silken chamber. Narses sat upright, his short legs dangling over the edge of his divan. Beside him, John looked distrustfully at everyone, long fingers curled about the jewelled hilt of his dagger. Pharamond glared at me and my son, willing us to give up our rightful property.
I turned my head slightly to the left. “Beware of rust,” I whispered, and ripped out my sword.
Arthur threw himself aside in time, else I might have taken his head off. I struck blind, knowing there were at least two men behind me. The blade smacked against a silver helmet, severing a cheek-guard and knocking its owner to the floor.
The sound of clashing steel jerked Bessas to life. He threw himself at one of the guards, and they went down in a roaring, cursing heap, scrabbling for their daggers.
“Stop this madness!” shrieked Narses, his voice resembling a kettle coming to the boil, “guards! Guards – someone turn out the guard!”
Most of his guests remained where they were, frozen in shock, but one or two saw an opportunity to win their general’s favour. They struggled to their feet, looking around blearily for their swords, only to have Arthur descend on them like a raging giant.
His fists smashed them to the floor, and then John flew at him, curved dagger raised to strike. Arthur blocked the strike with his forearm, kneed John in the crotch and threw him bodily across the pavilion. The screeching nobleman crashed into Narses’ divan, overturning it and sending the eunuch flying.
He landed heavily against the pillar carrying the bust of the Emperor Elagabalus. The bust toppled from its perch and landed next to Narses, who lay stunned, staring into the late emperor’s marble eyes in dumb confusion.
“Run!” shouted Bessas, who had got on top of his opponent, “run, you fools!”
I beckoned at Arthur, and together we ducked out of the pavilion into the night. Four more of Narses’ guards were running towards us, drawn by the noise.
“Get those horses,” rasped Arthur, pointing to a pair of beasts tethered to a tree beside the pavilion. They were being tended by a small, fair-haired servant boy, and probably belonged to Pharamond.
He bounded towards the guards, Caledfwlch whirling in his hand. The sword was like an extension of himself, and I could only watch in admiration as he made short work of the four men, killing one and severely wounding two. The last wisely took to his heels, howling for aid.
I had the easier task of dealing with the boy, who required only a sharp word and a cuff round the ear before he yelped and ran off into the darkness.
My fingers shook as I fumbled to untie the reins. I picked out the smaller of the horses for myself, a roan mare, and handed Arthur the sleek black stallion.
“He will better carry your weight,” I said, throwing him the reins. He nodded and leaped into the saddle, while I scrambled aboard the mare with distinctly less grace.
Oaths and shouts came from the pavilion, mixed with the sound of fighting, as we steered our stolen horses to the north and heeled them into a gallop. None tried to stop us. Arthur was popular among the soldiers, and in place of a hail of arrows we were sent on our way by laughter and encouraging shouts.
They were the last Roman voices I ever heard.
33.
Just a little longer, and I reach the end of my tale. The mere effort of writing and remembering has drained the last of my strength.
Abbot Gildas, poor man, has watched me slowly fade away these past two years, since I first took up my pen. Only his respect for my age, and the knowledge that it would strip me of purpose in life, prevents him from forbidding me to write.
I began this, my last despatch, with an account of how I lost my son. It ended with me lying half-dead near the banks of the Po, bleeding my life out from a host of wounds.
Flame of the West Page 19
