David Pilling - Flame of the West

If I had known how much trouble this man would cause me, and the Roman cause in general, I might have thrust Caledfwlch into his heart. As it was, I respectfully saluted the tall, leathery-skinned nobleman, and listened while he spoke with Procopius.

Belisarius’ secretary was not the sort to defer to anyone, but even he seemed overawed by John’s languid, aristocratic air, and (most unusually for him) made an effort to listen instead of dominating the conversation.

“Ye-es,” John drawled after Procopius had provided a hasty explanation of how we had escaped from Rome, “so General Belisarius is still shut up inside the city, is he? I feared as much. The general is a decent strategist, but rather too cautious.”

I was eating while he spoke, and almost choked on a bit of dried meat. Belisarius had risked his own life many times during the siege of Rome, and performed wonders in defending the city against obscene odds. This arrogant, perfumed young noble, in his rustling silks and polished lamellar armour, knew nothing of the hardships of war.

No-one heeded my spluttering. “I have studied the approaches to Rome,” said John, shading his eyes to study the fleet bobbing at anchor in bay, “and I believe the garrison still retains control of Ostia, am I correct?”

Ostia was the main harbour with access to Rome, about twenty miles northeast of the city.

“Yes,” replied Procopius, “but the Goths have seized the Portus Claudii. Thus we cannot get supplies into Rome via the sea.”

John gave a limp little flick of his gloved hand. “Then the supply wagons will travel up the Appian Way,” he said, “escorted by our cavalry. If they are attacked, the men can dismount and the wagons form into squares. A mobile fortress, yes?”

It was an original idea, and I started to wonder if John was something of a soldier after all. Our last detachment of reinforcements had reached Rome via Ostia, and he had the same notion.

We did not advance north immediately, but marched to Naples. I had no sooner found a billet than Procopius insisted I ride out with him, to look for more reinforcements.

Knowing my duty, though resenting it, I consented to be dragged all over Campania. The secretary was seized with one of his periodic bouts of furious energy, and in the space of two or three days managed to raise some three hundred men from various occupied towns and villages.

“Not a bad tally,” he said as we cantered back towards Naples, exhausted from our labours, “we might have levied more, but it is dangerous to strip the countryside of troops. I don’t trust the Italians. They need the presence of armed men to remind them of their loyalty to Rome.”

“But they are Romans,” I protested, “this is the heartland of the old Western Empire. Surely they regard our arrival as a deliverance?”

This was a point I had never fully grasped, and Procopius smiled thinly as he explained it to me.

“The Romans have done very well under the rule of the Gothic kings,” he said, “far better than under the latter-day Caesars. Between you and me, Coel, the later Western Emperors were a pack of idiots. They threw away their empire with both hands. Rome, and Italy, have prospered since Alaric deposed the last Emperor and sent his regalia to Constantinople.”

I glanced nervously at the line of horsemen behind us. At least a quarter of them were native troops, volunteers who had flocked to our banner.

“It is a hard thing, to submit to foreign conquest,” I said, “even if the rule of the conquerors is beneficial.”

I was thinking of Britain, the homeland I had not seen since childhood, and wondering who held dominion over her now.

After my grandsire’s death, the land had collapsed into a patchwork of petty feuding kings and chieftains, like so many cockerels fighting over a dungheap. Perhaps another strong man had emerged from the chaos, to seize power for a time. Or perhaps the invading Saxons and their foul kin had overwhelmed the fragmented British kingdoms and made the land their own. Whatever the state of affairs, I had little doubt the mass of the people lived in abject misery, taxed and herded into battle by their native rulers, slaughtered and enslaved by the invaders.

Sometimes I entertained impossible dreams of returning to Britain at the head of an army and rescuing my country. Restoring good government and order, expelling the barbarians, and uniting the land under a High King. I even pictured myself seated on the throne, robed in purple and cloth of gold like Justinian, Caledfwlch gleaming at my hip, and all the proud lords of Britain kneeling before me.

Fond dreams, for an ageing ex-charioteer and thoroughly mediocre junior officer in the Roman army. I was unlikely to see Britain again, or live much longer. Somehow, through various twists of fate, I had contrived to offend powerful and dangerous people, including the Empress Theodora, her friend Antonina, and the scheming eunuch Narses. It was only thanks to the protection of Belisarius, who smuggled me out of Constantinople before the net could close, that I still breathed.

Even in Italy, far from the imperial court, my enemies struck at me. Antonina, as was her habit, had accompanied her husband Belisarius on the campaign, and brought along her vile son Photius. Photius had tried to kill me at least once, during the Battle of Membresa. I survived that, and another assassination attempt outside Naples, and lived in fear and expectation of more.

“I must leave,” I said suddenly, blurting out my thoughts, “I must quit the empire. It is my only chance of survival.”

Procopius nodded slowly. “I am inclined to agree with you. I have never known a man with a such a talent for making enemies. I think your escape can be arranged, but not now. After this campaign is over, perhaps. Belisarius will not let you go just yet. He needs you.”

It seemed absurd, the idea that Belisarius was so reliant on one lowly officer, but I had the virtue of being loyal. The common soldiers loved their general, who had led them to one victory after another, but his captains were a treacherous, backstabbing crew, jealous of his success and always looking to criticise his decisions.

“He may yet promote you to centenar,” said Procopius with a dry chuckle, “or even higher, depending how desperate he gets.”

Soon the walls of Naples became visible, a shimmering white line on the horizon to the west. Procopius was distracted by the glint of spears to the north.

“Gothic scouts, possibly,” he muttered, “let’s get a closer look at them.”

We rode north until more horsemen came in view. Two columns arranged in double file, advancing at the trot in the direction of Naples.

I did a swift head-count. “Two hundred,” I said, “they fly Roman banners. Someone else has been at work, stripping the local garrisons of men.”

Procopius was piqued, for he regarded the task of collecting reinforcements as his alone. He thought John the Sanguinary was responsible, and cursed the young nobleman for the upstart son of a traitor all the way back to Naples.

We arrived to find the city in ferment, and one name rippling through the crowded streets:

Antonina!

The mere sound of it filled me with dismay. Belisarius had smuggled Antonina out of Rome, away from danger, and sent her south with a strong guard to await the outcome of the war in the peaceful tranquillity of Naples.

He little knew his wife. Antonina had taken up residence in the governor’s palace, from where she immediately despatched agents to gather men from the surrounding province. To do her credit, she had no intention of wallowing in comfort while her husband fought to defend Rome, and did her utmost to send him military aid.

I was reluctant to let Antonina know my presence in Naples, but misjudged my own importance: she was already embroiled in fresh plots and intrigues, and betraying her husband on a nightly basis with one Theodosius, a staggeringly handsome young man and Belisarius’ godson. I was no longer of relevance to her, though continued to live in fear of receiving an assassin’s blade in my back one dark night.