Jack Ludlow: Triumph

The armed men were rearranged in a fashion more fit for an inspection than fighting, while the gangway in the side of the galley was removed, the ladder that permitted entry from a much lower deck dropped into position.

‘Hail, Flavius Belisarius, magister of Byzantium, from Kindin Ebrimuth.’

The cry from the prow, given in guttural Latin from a senior Goth noble by his title, was accompanied by a Roman chest-beating salute, this as the spears of his escort shot forward on extended arms, signifying no sign of aggression from the military commander and governor of Rhegium.

Much as Flavius disliked being referred to as a Byzantine, he had to acknowledge that even within his own ranks it had now become common currency. To him the name smacked too much of Greece and, like his father before him, he was proud to be called a Roman, seeing in that polity and its achievements a set of values to which he could adhere.

Greeks, who massively made up the largest contingent in the imperial heartlands had, to his mind, few values at all, which in more temperate moments he would acknowledge as unfair; Romans and their Italian allies had been just as corrupt and febrile long before they ceased to hold a majority in the empire, a fact to bear in mind now he was landed on their shore.

‘Do you come to parley for terms?’ he demanded.

‘I come to talk.’

If the two statements sounded as if they meant the same thing it was clear they did not, at least to the Goth, which intrigued Flavius. ‘Then I bid you come aboard, Kindin .’

With the oars on the other galley shipped, a line was sent flying from one to the other, that followed by a thicker rope strong enough to bear the weight of bringing them together. Peaceful intent was underlined by the way the armed men of Ebrimuth’s vessel laid down their weapons on the deck and took a secure grip on said cable, hauling until the two vessels lay side by side, resting on hastily dropped fenders, this as chairs were brought out on which the principles could sit.

Ebrimuth came aboard alone, skipping up the ladder onto the higher deck with an agility that underlined his youth, Flavius being treated to another old-fashioned Roman salute, which gave him a moment to take in the man’s physical attributes. The Goth nobleman was barrel-chested and somewhat short in the leg, which gave his whole being an odd appearance. With his large upper body he should have been tall; with his lack of leg, and they were trunk-like, he was not.

The removal of his helmet revealed a well-scarred face, which indicated either a hearty warrior or an unlucky fighter, for the Goths were a fractious race who were inclined to internal squabbling, unwilling to let anything seen as an insult pass, when what counted as such could be as little as a churlish sideways glance. Fighting among themselves was as endemic as doing collective battle with their borderland enemies.

They occupied the heart of the old Roman Empire and had absorbed many of its ways, yet living in harmony with each other was not one of them. Nothing proved that more than the events which had taken place since the death of Theodoric the Great, a potentate who had not only pacified and ruled his fellow and troublesome Goths, but had done so in a way that won the approval of the native Italians as well, allowing them freedom to practise their form of Catholic worship, never seeking to impose his own Arian rites.

More importantly, Theodoric had, by his lack of greed for titles, kept content more than one Eastern emperor over a long and peaceful reign, never claiming any rank not granted to him, especially not imperial status for himself, an act which would have forced a martial response from Constantinople. For decades the two halves of the old Roman patrimony had lived in harmony and that had continued, if never quite as smoothly, under his daughter Amalasuintha, mother and regent to Theodoric’s grandson and heir, the boy Athalaric.

How many times had Flavius and Justinian discussed the tortured situation in Italy over the last ten years since the death of Theodoric, always with an eye on opportunities; Amalasuintha seeking to hold at bay ambitious nobles, not least her cousin Theodahad while that same relative flirted, for his own personal gain in land and money, with Constantinople.

If Theodahad was a thorn in her flesh he was not the sole one: Amalasuintha had wanted her son educated as a Roman but the powerful nobles who surrounded her court demanded their future king be raised a Goth and in overseeing his upbringing they had completely debauched the youngster. The death of Athalaric, a mere sixteen summers old, reputedly following on from a too heavy drinking bout, left his mother exposed.

She had married Theodahad in an attempt to shore up her position. Her reward had been for her new spouse to stand aside while she was first incarcerated and then murdered by those same jealous nobles who had corrupted her son. The question occupying Flavius’s mind now was simple: how would Ebrimuth, married to Theodahad’s daughter, feel in such a fevered polity; safe or at risk?

‘Your great reputation precedes you, Flavius Belisarius.’

The reply was as diplomatic as the Goth opening. ‘As would yours, Ebrimuth, had God granted you those opportunities he has graciously gifted to me. Shall we sit?’

The two chairs had been set facing each other in the middle of the deck and these the principles now occupied, exchanging the very necessary pleasantries that always precede the nub of a negotiation, questions of family, of children and of the health of the imperial couple, for it was well known that Justinian did not rule entirely alone but was a man who relied heavily on his wife Theodora.

‘He should get to the point,’ Photius whispered, his tone irritated. ‘It is a waste of time to indulge this barbarian.’

Procopius, standing with him and just out of earshot of the main conversation, smiled at the natural impatience of youth as Photius added to his complaint.

‘We need to fight him and annihilate him, not chatter like fishwives.’

‘And if we are not obliged to fight?’

Photius looked hard at his stepfather’s secretary who, having given the young man a quizzical but silent response, returned his gaze to the two leaders, they having now moved on to more germane matters.

‘I know you do not lead a force enough for conquest, magister Belisarius. Sicily is not lacking in those who keep us informed.’

‘It is large enough for my immediate needs.’

‘Even weakened by the garrisons you have been required to leave behind?’

‘Thanks to the way you Goths have treated with the locals, that does not require great numbers. The Sicilians are happy to be back under the rule of a proper Roman Emperor. Is it not just as important that you examine the forces you lead? Few Goths, a dearth of cavalry-’

That got a wave at the coast and the narrow strip of land between the sea and the mountains. ‘Hardly necessary in such terrain.’

Flavius masked any response; that was nonsense and both men knew it yet it did induce a thought. Had Ebrimuth, knowing what was coming and sure that the men he termed Byzantines would land north of Rhegium, constructed a defensive barrier to stop any advance on the city? The narrow littoral certainly leant itself to that as a tactic and it would impose a check on his aims. It was a fleeting reflection and one he dismissed; there was too much traffic between Sicily and Italy for such a set of works to be kept a secret.

‘You may find that assumption to be fatal.’

‘What is your aim, magister ?’

‘First to secure Rhegium, then the conquest of Italy and the reunification on behalf of Justinian of the twin parts of the empire. To do that I must march north and take Ravenna.’