David Pilling - Flame of the West

“Scum,” he termed us, “fit to adorn a gallows. Nothing more. I will lead you to profit or death, but don’t expect mercy.”

We were scavengers, feeding off the scraps of war. While Totila laid siege to the few remaining Roman garrisons in Italy, and Narses plodded around the Gulf of the Adriatic, the likes of the Masterless Men burned and pillaged and murdered as they pleased.

There was none to stop us. We had little to fear from the law, since neither the Goths or the Romans could spare the men to enforce it.

Occasionally the citizens of some particularly lawless province would band together to defend their homes. We might have easily scattered these hapless clods, with their cudgels and farm tools, but Asbad preferred to avoid conflict. He would never fight, unless we were starving or in dire need of shelter.

Under his bluff exterior beat the heart of a coward. I despised him, and all his followers, and wished I had the means to bring them all to justice. For months I witnessed them slaughter and rob and rape, bringing horrors I will not describe to isolated villages and farmsteads.

They thought me soft, for refusing to join in with the worst of their crimes. God forgive me, but I did nothing to stop them either. My quill falters as I think of the atrocities I witnessed.

Courage ebbs with age. If I had been a younger man, I might have chosen to die, sword in hand, defending the honour of some young girl the Masterless Men wished to brutalise. Instead I stood aside and prayed silently for death to come and take us all.

The wheel turned, and winter slowly melted into spring. During the worst of the cold months we sheltered in the foothills of the Appenines, inside a ruined tower Asbad claimed to be the palace of some long-dead king, but I reckoned was an old fortified byre for cattle.

One blustery evening in early April, as we sat huddled around a fire on the rough floor, Asbad’s scouts returned with fresh tidings of the war.

“The Romans are on Italian soil,” said one, a one-eyed Lombard ruffian named Agelmund, “we saw them marching down the coast to Ancona. Thousands of horse and foot. Too many to count.”

“Thirty thousand,” I muttered, and cursed as the bread I was toasting on the end of my sword dropped into the fire.

“I was in Constantinople when Narses was recruiting,” I explained in response to all the hard looks, “the Emperor gave him all the money and men he desired. This is the largest Roman army to invade Italy for centuries.”

“What of Totila?” demanded Asbad.

“He is at Rome, mustering all the men he can get,” answered another of the scouts, “besides the people of his own race, he has hired a number of Lombards and Gepids.”

“There are the imperial deserters, as well,” said Asbad, “men Totila lured from their old allegiance with promises of easy plunder. What of you, Coel? Would you sell your sword to the Goths?”

I would rather fornicate with rabid dogs, was the truthful answer. “To anyone who can afford it,” I replied carelessly, earning myself a laugh from the others and a comradely slap on the back. They thought I was a fine fellow, if inclined to be soft-hearted and easy on women, and referred to me as their little priest, since I refused to take part in rape and the pillaging of holy places.

Asbad had no reason to welcome the arrival of Narses. All was set for the contending armies to clash in an epic pitched battle, thus bringing the long war to a close and finally deciding the ownership of Italy. This was wretched news for the Masterless Men, who lived off the consequences of war, and relied on it continuing for many years yet.

He brooded for weeks in his lonely mountain stronghold, sending out regular bands of scouts to watch Totila at Rome and Narses at Ancona, and report on any movements. I waited, and bided my time, and prayed for Arthur’s wellbeing.

“Please God,” I murmured every night, out of earshot of my godless comrades, “let him be safe. Bring him through every trial without hurt. If he must fight, let him not be struck down. Spare him, O Lord, and take me instead. I am old, and ready to die.”

It was high summer before Narses made his move. From Ancona he marched north to Ravenna, forcing a path through the mountains since the Goths had destroyed the old Roman bridge on the Flaminian road. At Ravenna he rested his army for nine days before setting out again.

“He’s marching on Rome,” reported Agelmund, “straight down the Flaminian Way. Totila has moved out of the city to confront him.”

I would not have credited Narses with such boldness, but then the eunuch constantly surprised me. His conduct of the war to date had been firm and decisive, as though placing him in overall command had instilled some sense of duty in place of his usual scheming avarice. For once, Justinian had demonstrated shrewd judgment.

An idea came to me. “We should be present, when the armies meet,” I said, “remain out of sight while the battle rages, and then descend on the field after all is over. Think of it! All those thousands of dead men. The plunder would be immense.”

“Too risky,” Asbad replied quickly, “what if we were spotted by outriders?”

I could almost smell his fear, and his followers looked unimpressed. A few had already started to cast sidelong looks at their chief. I was sometimes tempted to encourage their doubts with a carefully placed word here and there, but refrained, not wishing to put myself in danger. It is in the nature of thieves to fall out among themselves, and I predicted Asbad would suffer a fatal accident before the summer was out.

He sensed the disquiet of his men. After a bit more whining and protesting, he agreed to my plan by pretending it was his own.

“We shall track the line of march of the Romans,” he said, “Totila will have to advance to meet them somewhere on the Flaminian road. Until the slaughter is over, we keep our distance.”

“Then,” he added, baring his brown teeth in a snarl, “the wolves shall descend.”

The Masterless Men rode out in force from their lonely hilltop fortress. There were twenty-seven in all, a disparate collection of Goths, Isaurians, Lombards, Gepids and I know not what else. And, of course, a single Briton.

Asbad sent two bands of scouts on ahead to discover the precise location of the contending armies. Agramond’s men returned first. They found us picking our way through a ravine, surrounded by the frowning heights of the snow-capped Appenines.

“The Romans have taken up position over there,” said Agramond, pointing his spear to the south, “on a plain near Taginae.”

I could see nothing but mountains in that direction, but Asbad knew the country better. “Onward, then,” he said, “but slowly.”

He took us south via a difficult route, through a winding defile with sheer walls of rock rising either side of us. The way was so narrow in places we had to ride in single file, and Asbad insisted on absolute silence.

The ground sloped gradually upward. It was oppressively hot, and clouds of midges buzzed and danced around us, irritating the horses.

We emerged on a high ridge, overlooking a broad expanse of grassy plain. The plain was entirely ringed by mountains, a hollow crown of jagged white peaks, thrusting like colossal daggers into the peerless blue sky.

It was a glorious sight, and at another time I might have enjoyed the view. Instead my eye was drawn to the north-west, where Narses had drawn up his army.

I am a Briton at heart, of the old blood of British princes, but did not serve all those years in the Roman army for nothing. After the long, weary months of captivity, and the degrading company of thieves, the sight of the eagle stirred something dormant in my soul.