David Pilling - Flame of the West

When over five hundred men had been gathered, it was agreed that our cavalry should advance north towards Rome along the Appian Way, escorting the train of wagons, loaded with corn and wine, for the relief of the city.

Meanwhile our fleet, carrying three thousand Isaurian infantry, would sail for the port of Ostia. This was the plan devised by John the Sanguinary, and none cared to contradict it.

“If all goes to pot,” Procopius remarked sourly, “then at least we shall witness a swift end to the career of a most unpleasant young man.”

Procopius was vindictive, and judged people on instinct. I could never fathom, for instance, why he took such a liking to me.

I shared some of his dislike of John, who struck me as arrogant, but he was the most senior officer present in Naples. His pretty ways and noble birth appealed to Antonina, who had no hesitation in naming him our commander.

I joined the cavalry, placing myself among the Heruls, and our little expeditionary force set out north.

To Rome.

We followed the Appian Way, the ancient paved highway linking Rome to southeast Italy. I fully expected us to be attacked, and to have to fight our way to Rome over mountains of Gothic corpses, but our progress was unhindered.

“Vitiges is looking north,” Procopius said confidently, “all his attention is fixed on Rome. He pays no heed to what is happening behind him. Fool! Belisarius is lucky in his enemies. Not one of the barbarian kings he has faced is his equal in war.”

This was true, though Vitiges, King of the Goths, enjoyed a reputation as an able and ferocious soldier. I had never even seen him, though he was said to be a typical chieftain of his race, tall and auburn-haired and dripping with gold ornaments.

John the Sanguinary was less of a toy soldier than he appeared. He was careful to despatch scouts, to look for any sign of the Goths. They returned at a hard gallop when we were some five miles south of Rome.

“General Belisarius has sallied out from the Pincian Gate,” one reported breathlessly, “almost his entire garrison is engaged with the Gothic host, in pitched battle on the plain before the city.”

John’s carefully plucked eyebrows shot up. “Not as cautious as you thought, eh?” I remarked, and returned his frown with a grin. In days of old I might have been flogged for insolence to a superior officer, but the legendary discipline of the Roman army was much decayed.

“It is a distraction,” said Procopius, “Belisarius must have learned of our arrival, and has engaged the Goths to give us time to reach Ostia and meet up with the fleet. When he learns we have safely passed through the enemy lines, he will withdraw back inside the city.”

John hesitated. The city lay to the north-east, and we were following the section of highway that led straight to the port of Ostia. Just visible to the north was the section of ruined aqueduct that Vitiges had partially repaired and turned into a fortress, guarding the approach to Rome.

“You,” said John, stabbing a finger at me, “remind me of your name.”

“Coel ap Amhar ap Arthur,” I replied promptly.

“Ah, yes. The general’s tame Briton. I have heard something of you. Brave and loyal, they say. Let us test those qualities. I want you to take five hundred men – the ones we levied in Campania will do – and ride north-east to assist Belisarius. The rest of our force will continue north and press on towards Ostia.”

I stared at him, regretting my insolence of a moment earlier. “But, sir,” I protested, “I am a mere infantry officer, and have never commanded more than ten men in the field.”

He smiled lazily at me. “Then here is an unrivalled opportunity to prove your worth. You ride rather well for an infantryman. Let us see how you lead.”

John was the commander, and there was no gainsaying his orders. I turned away, trying to ignore the jealous stares of the more senior captains who should have been sent in my stead.

Procopius touched my shoulder. “He thinks you will fail,” he whispered, “but I have every confidence in your ability. Do well, and you may receive your promotion sooner than we thought.”

My orders were to lead my new command north, straight through the heart of the Gothic camp, and do as much damage to the enemy as possible before withdrawing. I was fairly certain John didn’t care about our fate – I was a mere Briton, a barbarian from the distant north, and my men were the scrapings of local garrisons – but wanted to ensure he got his two thousand cavalry to Ostia.

Feeling giddy, I put myself at the head of the levies and glanced up at their banner , flapping limply in the slight wind. It displayed the double-headed Roman eagle, worked in golden thread against a red field.

I had followed the eagle in a series of bloody campaigns, from North Africa to Sicily to Italy. For much of that time I had fought as a common soldier, free of the burden of rank and responsibility. My one stint as an officer, in charge of a handful of Heruls and Isaurians, had been mercifully brief. Arthur’s blood ran in my veins, but not his natural talent for leadership.

Now John the Sanguinary had put me in charge of five hundred cavalry. My guts rumbled in panic as I trotted to the head of my new command. Swallowing, I raised my arm and nodded at the trumpeter to give the signal to advance.

I led them on at the canter, skirting the ruins of the aqueduct and aiming for some open, flat ground with a large timber stockade to the north-west. If the Goths should suddenly spring on us, at least we would have room to manoeuvre.

Tattered Gothic banners displaying their crude symbols of the horse and the bull flapped from the walls of the stockade, and the upper levels of the aqueduct-fortress.

I glimpsed a few helmeted heads, and expected the timber gates of the stockade to yawn open at any moment, disgorging thousands of screaming Gothic cavalry. They are fine horsemen, though they have no mounted bowmen as good as our Huns and Heruls, and enjoyed a massive advantage in numbers. Over a hundred and fifty thousand Goths were encamped around the walls of Rome, an entire nation in arms.

Nothing happened. The sentries ducked out of sight, and we thundered on past endless rows of empty tents and doused cooking fires.

It was unnerving. The whole of that vast encampment, spread out on the fields south of Rome, was emptied of troops. It was not deserted: we rode past tents full of sick and wounded men, and somewhere a war-horn sounded the alarm, but there weren’t enough soldiers left to oppose us. We might have plundered the baggage wagons and set the rest of the camp on fire, but I was no freebooter, and stuck to my orders.

The sound of a gathering storm lured us north, towards the walls of Rome. As we drew closer, the sounds became more distinct; the rumble of hoofs, the shrieks of terrified horses and dying men, the scrape and clash of weapons – war-cries, screams, conflicting orders, war-horns sounding advance and retreat, the zip of arrows and barrage of drums. All the noise and chaos and terror of battle. It was a familiar, heady, intoxicating din, both terrifying and appealing, quickening a man’s blood at the same time as driving him almost mad with fear.

I halted on a little rise overlooking the battlefield, drinking in the sight and sound of slaughter.

Thus far in the Italian campaign, Belisarius had suffered only one defeat in battle against the Goths, and this was down to the cowardice and indiscipline of the Roman citizens who insisted on fighting alongside our men. He had learned his lesson, and I compare the battle I witnessed before the walls of Rome that day as akin to a skilled boxer holding off a heavier, clumsier opponent.