David Pilling - Flame of the West

“Senseless massacre,” remarked Asbad, “Totila is not fit to command. A good leader leads his men to profit, not death.”

“Or glory,” said Agremond, who had no love for his chief. His hand moved slightly towards his dagger. I tensed, waiting for him to make his bid for the leadership of the Masterless Men. If he drew steel on Asbad, I was fairly certain others would follow.

Agremond’s nerve failed him at the crucial moment. Frustrated, I turned my attention back to the battle.

The Gothic squadrons were broken up, shattered beyond repair, over half their number lying stretched on the bloodied grass. A few hundred men, the best of them, fought on doggedly in isolated groups. Eighty or so formed up around the royal banner, resolved to defend it, and their king, to the last.

Asbad craned his neck, his eyes narrowing as they searched the field. “There,” he said, pointing at the distant figure of Totila, fighting like a madman alongside his remaining bodyguards, “keep him in your sight.”

The courage of most men has its limits. A few of the Goths wheeled their horses and fled, galloping back the way they had come, over ground liberally scattered with dead and dying.

This was enough to break the wavering spirit of the Gothic infantry, who had done nothing but stand and watch the methodical destruction of their comrades. The ordered lines of spearmen and archers rapidly disintegrated into a mob of fugitives, casting aside their weapons and streaming south towards the Flaminian road. I had seen a rout before, even participated in a few, and recognised the all-consuming terror that drives trained soldiers to panic and run for their lives.

Asbad had no interest in the fate of the infantry, though their discarded gear was of some value. He kept his eyes fixed on the carnage to the north, where the last of Totila’s warriors were being overwhelmed and cut down.

“There!” he shouted, jabbing his finger at the royal standard, “there is our quarry!”

The standard was moving away from the battlefield, while Totila’s few surviving guards dragged their master out of the fighting and threw him across a horse. He was badly wounded, one hand clutched to his bleeding side, and in no condition to prevent them leading him away. Otherwise he would have happily stayed to meet his end on Roman blades.

I thought Asbad fixated on mere plunder, but he had it in mind to slay a king. “Forward, if you wish to be rich men!” he shouted, clapping in his spurs and urging his horse down the rocky slope.

Seeing his intention, the Masterless Men gave a great shout and spurred after him. I followed, grateful for the opportunity to get closer to the battle – and Arthur – and to put an end to Asbad.

The Gothic army was in full flight, thousands of fleeing horse and foot scattered across the plain. Asbad and his men galloped through them, riding over those who failed to get out of the way in time, hacking down the few who showed fight.

I made no attempt to strike at the fugitives. There was only one man I wanted to kill that day, and I kept my eyes fixed on his back.

The Masterless Men intercepted Totila and his guards on the western edge of the plain. Only five men remained to the wounded king, but these five prepared to sell their lives dearly, forming a protective circle around him.

Asbad hung back while his followers tore into the hopelessly outnumbered guards. The skirmish was brief and bitter, and nine Masterless Men died before the five were slain.

They died well, those men, and their bloody-handed killers honoured them by immediately plundering the corpses. The thieves growled and snapped at each other, fighting for the possession of rings ripped or cut from dead fingers.

Seeing Totila alone and defenceless, Asbad struck. He charged in, spear levelled, and impaled the king’s body, through the gap between the dented plates of his cuirass.

Totila slumped over his horse’s neck, coughing blood, while Asbad wheeled away in triumph.

“I killed the king!” he shouted excitedly, “I killed the king!”

His celebration was short-lived. I galloped in behind him, judging my aim carefully, and unleashed a scything cut at his neck.

It was a sweet blow. My sword was an ugly, ill-balanced thing, but with a finely honed edge. It cleaved smoothly through the back of Asbad’s thick neck and neatly sliced off his head.

The head span away, eyes glazing, mouth still stretched in a frozen grin. I saw it land and bounce a couple of times, before a fleeing horse trod on it. The skull burst like a rotten melon, scattering what passed for Asbad’s brains all over the trampled earth.

None of the Masterless Men made any effort to avenge their chief. They were distracted by plunder, and three of the most avaricious, including Agramond, were already tearing at the body of Totila. They fought over his rich vestments, spattered with blood and mire, and Agramond dragged the jewel-encrusted scarf from his neck.

He would have made off with it, but one of his comrades struck at him with a sword, cutting off his left arm at the elbow. The bloodied scarf fluttered to earth, along with Agramond’s severed limb. I was minded to leave the thieves to their work, but then we were overrun by a tide of yelling horsemen.

They were Huns, despatched by Narses to capture Totila and bring him back alive as a valuable prisoner. Furious at seeing him dead, they set about butchering his killers.

Outnumbered and outmatched, the Masterless Men were slaughtered. I clung to my horse’s right side, determined not to raise my head, and was swept away in the swirling mass of fighting men and screaming horses.

“Kill these pigs! Just kill them!” someone howled, and I saw a Roman officer cut with his spatha at a robber’s face. The heavy chopping edge sliced away the top of his victim’s head, leaving only the lower part of the jaw intact.

The officer wore lamellar armour over his chest and thighs, liberally stained with blood, and had lost his crested helmet in the fighting. I would have recognised his lean, greying, sharp-nosed face anywhere this side of Hell.

“Bessas!” I shouted, my voice cracking as I tried to make myself heard, “Bessas – it’s me, Coel! Roma Victor!”

Bessas reined in, blood dripping from his sword, and looked around. He was never one for smiling, but I thought the corners of his sour little mouth hitched up a little when he spotted me.

“So it is,” he said, as though my presence was nothing remarkable, “and after all this time you still neglect to salute a superior officer!”

Bessas was in command of the Huns, and managed to restrain them from killing me. Instead they sated their bloodlust on my erstwhile comrades.

I had spent many months in the company of the Masterless Men, but cannot honestly pretend I felt a shred of pity for them. They were criminals of the lowest stamp, thieves and murderers and rapists, and rode with Death constantly grinning at their shoulders. At Taginae, his skeletal hands gathered them up.

When all was over, and the Huns had gathered up the body of Totila, Bessas escorted me to the Roman lines. Dusk was falling as we picked our way over the wreckage of the Gothic army. Weary but victorious Roman soldiers were moving among the piles of bodies, looking for fallen comrades and finishing off wounded Goths.

“A familiar reek,” he remarked, lifting his long snout to sniff the rank air, “blood and death and terror. You and I have sampled it on a fair few battlefields, eh?”

I was in no mood to reminisce about past campaigns. “Bessas,” I said anxiously, “what do you know of my son? Did he survive the battle?”

“Never fear. Arthur came through it without a scratch, and distinguished himself into the bargain. Did you see him repel that first Gothic charge? I found myself wondering who his real father was.”