David Pilling - Flame of the West

Our horse-archers swarmed forward, isolating bands of Gothic footmen and riding around them in circles. Stranded, the Goths could do nothing but duck behind their large wooden shields as arrows rained down on their heads.

The slow, heavily armoured Gothic cavalry lumbered forward, but our men swiftly retreated in good order, behind the safety of their own footmen. These were drawn up in six disciplined phalanxes in front of the Pincian Gate.

Despite his overwhelming advantage in numbers, Vitiges’ only chance of victory was to break the iron wall of Roman infantry. He threw his horsemen against the lines of shields time and again, like waves lashing at a rocky shore. Time and again the Goths were repulsed, leaving the broken bodies of men and horses strewn about the bloody, churned-up ground. Any gaps in the Roman infantry squares were quickly filled, plugged with fresh bodies from the reserves Belisarius had drawn up behind the front lines.

I could see the general’s banner, fluttering above the heads of the infantry. His golden-armoured figure would be at the head of his bucelarii, elite Roman cavalry, waiting for the Goths to tire so he could lead them forward in a shattering, all-out charge. It was the same tactic he had used against the Sassanids at Dara, and the Vandals at Tricamarum, and on both occasions proved devastatingly successful.

It was midmorning, and the fighting had been going on some time. I thought Belisarius had advanced dangerously far outside the gates, beyond the defensive cover of the ditch. The Goths were concentrating their attacks on the exposed flanks of his infantry. If these were smashed the entire Roman line might be rolled up and destroyed.

Directly in front of my position, not thirty feet away, were the rear lines of the Gothic reserves. They were mostly infantry, armed with long spears and heavy shields, and had their backs to us.

I had to act before they noticed our presence. For a terrifying moment I was seized with indecision, the curse of men promoted beyond their station and ability. The blood ran cold in my veins. My fingers froze on the hilt of Caledfwlch, and the order to charge dried up in my throat.

Shaking with terror, I had enough presence of mind left to nod meaningfully at the trumpeter. He raised the curved bugle to his lips and blew a long, sharp blast, causing my horse to rear and toss her head in panic. I fumbled with her reins, my fingers slipping, and she bolted, straight towards the Gothic lines.

“Roma Victor!” I croaked. The strangled cry was taken up by my men, and then they were surging after me, baying like hounds racing in for the kill.

We were among the Goths before they knew what had hit them. I managed to regain control of my horse, and steered her with my knees, Herul-style, stabbing right and left with Caledfwlch.

My panic ebbed away. The Gothic spearmen scattered, their ordered ranks dissolving into a mob of confused and frightened men, taken unawares as they watched the battle unfold before the gates of Rome. They outnumbered my levies at least three to one, but we had the advantage of surprise.

I did my best to make it count, urging my horse deeper into their squadrons, bellowing like a mad bull. Caledfwlch was slippery to the hilt with barbarian blood, and my men did terrible execution, fanning out to strike down the fugitives with spears and spathas.

We carved a lane right through the centre of the Gothic army, until I found myself in the heart of the storm, surrounded by fighting men, on foot and horseback, stabbing and hacking at each other. Great clouds of dust rolled and billowed across the field, tinted by red mist. Bodies lay everywhere, twitching and bleeding in their death-throes. The ground was littered with broken weapons, fallen standards and bits of abandoned gear.

A division of Gothic cavalry were entangled with some of our infantry and a unit of horse-archers. My levies had crashed into the heaving, surging combat, and now all was confusion. Officers rode about like lost sheep, losing sight of their commands as Roman and Gothic banners dipped and mingled in the throng, a meaningless riot of colour.

I was fighting for my life, and had little idea of the general progress of the battle, but was later able to piece events together.

Belisarius had deliberately advanced too far beyond the Pincian Gate, and exposed his flanks to a Gothic counter-attack. Vitiges seemed to have forgotten who he was fighting, and blundered straight into the trap. At about the time my levies were making short work of the Gothic spearmen, Belisarius had sounded the retreat, and his entire army started to withdraw. Smelling blood, the Goths pursued with wild abandon, thinking they had the Romans at their mercy.

I knew little of what was happening, having lost touch with most of my command in the general chaos. The trumpeter and standard bearer had stuck close to my side, and I looked around for some high ground, where I might try to rally my scattered men.

A blast of trumpets and bucinae rose above the hellish, ear-splitting noise of battle. I glanced north, and saw the Roman banners moving away, back towards the grey walls of Rome. The eagle was retreating.

The Goths uttered a great shout of triumph, and the sea of bodies around me gave a violent lurch, as though a powerful current had run through it. I found myself carried along, helpless against the tide, crouched low over my horse’s neck as enemy warriors stampeded past me, chanting their war-songs.

To raise my head in that heaving mass meant death. Somehow my horse kept her footing, and not one Goth stopped to turf me out of the saddle. They had a greater quarry to chase.

When the din had died down a little, I risked looked up, and found myself alone. The plain around me was deserted, save for a few scattered corpses and the occasional riderless horse, peacefully cropping at the trampled grass.

I gently turned my own horse about, and looked upon the destruction of the Gothic army.

The Romans had fled with all speed to the Pincian Gate, hotly pursued by the enemy. To the west, close to the banks of the Tiber, lay the Flaminian Gate, which Belisarius had ordered blocked up with rubble. I remembered doing my part to seal the gate, sweating in the Italian sun as I heaved lumps of stone onto the pile under the arch.

Unknown to me, and certainly to the Goths, Belisarius had ordered the stones removed during the night before the battle. As the Gothic cavalry rushed towards the walls, hoping to cut down our fleeing soldiers and force entrance into Rome, a single trumpet-blast rang out on the parapet.

The Flaminian Gate rumbled open and the bucelarii charged out, a thousand lancers in shining lamellar armour, their bright pennons and streamers flying in the wind.

They hit the Gothic cavalry in flank. Horses and men vanished under the impetus of their storm-charge, and entire squadrons were smashed to pieces, the survivors scattering in all directions. The bucelarii were supremely disciplined. Instead of pursuing they plunged into the crumbling ranks of Gothic infantry.

I had seen them at work before, at Tricarum, where their repeated charges broke the back and the spirit of the Vandal host. Belisarius had spent much of his personal fortune on their training and equipment, his elite cavalrymen, modelled on the heavily armoured lancers used by the Sassanids in the East. Any one of them was a match for ten ordinary soldiers, and was an expert with lance, bow and sword, as well as a consummate horseman.

As at Tricamarum, I was privileged to watch them from a distance. They tore the Goths apart, slaughtering the hapless infantry like pigs and giving them no respite to rally and re-form. At the same time Belisarius led his personal guard in a counter-attack from inside the Pincian Gate, and the tottering Gothic host was caught between two fires.