David Pilling - Flame of the West

He spoke in jest, and I was relieved enough to laugh with him.

We reached the northern edge of the battlefield, where the Gothic cavalry had broken their teeth on the Roman shields. The Roman infantrymen had broken up into their respective tribes, and something like a festival atmosphere had settled over the army. Men laughed and joked around their campfires, their good humour fuelled by the barrels of ale and mead and wine Narses had supplied them.

There was a slightly hysterical edge to their laughter. These men were the ones who had survived, and come through the battle unscathed. If you listened hard, you could hear the distant screams of their wounded and dying comrades in the medical tents, where our surgeons were practising their art.

I noticed Bessas was taking me to the grand central pavilion, where the banner of the eagle flew in triumph.

“I have no wish to see Narses,” I said, halting, “he thinks I’m dead. Let him.”

“You could not hope to deceive him for long,” replied Bessas in his matter-of-fact way, “and you must come, if you wish to see your son. Arthur is in the general’s pavilion. Narses has invited him to dinner, along with any other officers who distinguished themselves today.”

I might have feared a trap, but this was Bessas, one of the most honest men in the Roman army, even if that wasn’t saying much. With a sigh, I followed him to the pavilion.

Narses was still guarded by his toy soldiers, richly-armoured gallants with crests on their silver helmets. I responded to their stares with a sneer and a rude gesture, and laughed when one reached for his sword.

“Careful,” I said, “the rust might make the blade stick.”

He went red, but Bessas caught my arm and led me inside before any further pleasantries could be exchanged.

The interior was just as tastelessly opulent as I remembered from my last meeting with Narses at Ancona. Added to the rich carpets and stench of incense was the warbling of a young male singer in the corner, accompanied by a girl plucking on a lyre. They looked like siblings, with the same angelic faces and crisp blonde hair, and were probably slaves, bought by Narses at great expense from the market in Constantinople.

Their gentle music was all but drowned by the coarse laughter of soldiers, sitting or sprawling on a number of divans arranged in a rough circle in the middle of the pavilion. The wine was flowing, and had been for some time judging by the drunken conversation and coarse jests flying about.

Narses was lounging on the smallest of the divans, wearing a plain white robe with a silver circlet on his brow. His friend, John the Sanguinary, sat at his right hand, dressed in a manner which might have been considered extravagant by an opium-addled Persian whoremaster. He was a vision in rich silks of many hues, green and gold and crimson and God knows what else. Pale gold rings flashed on his fingers of his right hand as he delicately stifled a yawn. No mean soldier himself, the company of soldiers evidently bored him.

I cared nothing for either of them, and looked eagerly among the crowd of red faces for my son.

Arthur had already spotted me. He rose from his divan and strode across the floor to embrace me, his face glowing with wine and joy.

“Father!” he shouted, “is it really you?”

Unlike most of the others, he still wore his armour, and Caledfwlch was bound to his hip. I submitted to his crushing embrace, wincing as I felt my ribs creak, while he roared and pounded me on the back.

The Bear of Britain, they used to call my grandsire, or so my mother told me. Arthur senior had been a big, fearsomely strong man, and his descendent was no weakling. I was glad of that, but also needed to breathe.

“Loosen your grip a little,” I wheezed, “else my lungs will pop.”

He subsided, still laughing, and held me at arm’s length. His green eyes sparkled, and for a moment I fancied his mother was looking at me through them.

“They said you were dead,” he said, giving me a shake, “drowned off the coast of Sena Gallica. God’s bones, how I wept for you! Where have you been all this time?”

His bull-horn of a voice rang in the silence. The din of music and conversation had died away, and over Arthur’s shoulder I saw Narses watching me with a cold glitter in his eyes.

“I see a ghost has come to join our little celebration,” said the eunuch, “one I thought laid to rest at the bottom of the ocean, many months ago.”

I gently pushed Arthur aside. “I am no ghost,” I replied, “but solid flesh and bone. Bessas, prove it.”

Bessas gave one of his rare grins and punched me on the arm.

“Coel is alive,” he declared, “if a trifle bruised.”

Narses steepled his fingers and glanced sidelong at John, who was glaring at me with an expression I can only describe as two parts disbelief to one part sheer hatred.

“Well, well,” said Narses, “perhaps you walked ashore across the seabed. You are a hard man to kill. No wonder Britain proved so difficult to conquer, if all the natives are like you.”

“You admit it, then,” I said accusingly, “you admit deliberately plotting my death at Sena Gallica, by placing me aboard one of the condemned transports.”

Narses gave a little shrug. “Not at all. I bear you no particular ill-will, though you have proved relentlessly stubborn in your refusal to serve me. It was John who tried to kill you at Sena Gallica. If you had been in my employ then, I would not have allowed it.”

John’s handsome head snapped around, and he glared venomously at his friend. “Damn you!” he hissed, “you dare accuse me of such a thing, in public, in front of fellow officers?”

“I accuse you of nothing,” Narses replied, unmoved, “I state it. I am in command here. Everyone present would do well to remember that simple truth.”

He inclined his oversized head to his left, to a man who looked like a high-ranking barbarian, with long yellow hair and drooping moustaches. His intelligent blue eyes studied me carefully, and Arthur, and occasionally dropped to look greedily at Caledfwlch.

“This is Pharamond,” said Narses, “an envoy from Theodobald, King of the Franks. He is our honoured guest.”

I failed to see the envoy’s relevance, but Narses never said or did anything without a carefully planned reason.

“Theodobald is a young man,” he prattled on, “a very young man indeed, just sixteen years old, and new to power. I am glad to say he is a sensible youth, and wishes to be a friend to Rome. Hence the presence of Pharamond, who witnessed our victory today.”

“The young king seeks to learn wisdom from history. He has read of the exploits of his warlike forebears, and eagerly devours the legends and chronicles of other nations. Including those of your own fair isle, Coel.”

I kept a careful eye on Pharamond while Narses talked. The envoy had a lean and wolfish look about him, and kept toying with the hilt of his sword.

“Your return was an unlooked-for gift from God,” Narses continued, “I see that now. Theodobald is gathering not only wisdom, but all the relics of the ancient world he can find. Relics, as everyone knows, hold power.”

“The sword,” growled Pharamond, “the sword that belonged to Caesar, and was forged by the gods. Give it to us.”

I looked to Arthur, whose face had darkened with anger. “What is this?” he cried, clapping his hand to Caledfwlch, “you mean to give my inheritance to some barbarian chieftain? Not while I live!”

“Nor me,” I said, moving to stand beside him. “Caesar’s sword belongs to our family.”

I looked to Bessas, but the veteran stood silent, frowning into his grey beard. He had always lacked for resolution, and was one of those who failed to support Belisarius when the general needed him at Ravenna.