David Pilling - Flame of the West

By now some of my levies had returned to the standard, though at least half were missing, either dead or plundering the defenceless enemy camp.

“What do we do, sir?” asked my standard bearer. He was just a lad, beardless, fresh-faced and trembling with excitement, and clearly dying to strike his blow.

Hundreds of Goths were fleeing back across the plain, making for the safety of their stockades and entrenchments. They looked like a panic-stricken mob, all discipline and courage gone, their banners and weapons left sprawling in the dust.

I had seen enough of war to know what happened to those who tried to get between fugitives and safety. Even the worst coward can show fight if denied his last refuge.

“We withdraw,” I said, ignoring his look of disappointment, “back to the Appian Way.”

I gave the order, and led my remaining men west, to rejoin John the Sanguinary.

We caught up with the convoy on the last stage of its journey to Ostia. I reported the news of Belisarius’ victory before the gates of Rome, though refrained from mentioning my own modest role in it. A vain man himself, I sensed John was quick to spot vanity in others, and would not give him an excuse to think me arrogant.

“You did reasonably well,” he said when I had finished my report, “and it is good to know the general has made our task that much easier. Plenty of Goths killed, eh?”

“Hundreds, sir,” I replied, “but merely a drop in the ocean. Belisarius lacks the numbers to inflict a significant defeat on them.”

John stroked his carefully oiled and combed whiskers, and gazed west, towards the sea. Our fleet was hugging the coast, on its way to meet the convoy on the southern bank of Ostia. The northern bank, along with the harbour, was still in the hands of the Goths.

We had to devise a way of getting the supplies of corn and wine into Rome. His gaze switched from the west to the convoy, the long, meandering line of ox-drawn wagons lumbering along the highway.

“Those beasts will be done in by the time we get to Ostia,” he muttered, referring to the teams of oxen. Our advance was rapid, and the drivers were pushing the animals hard, lashing and cursing them with equal vigour.

To the rear of the convoy, escorted by twenty Hunnish lancers and drawn by a team of white horses, was Antonina’s litter. The silk curtains were closed, protecting her from the dust and stink of the convoy. It was all too easy to imagine her lithe form reclining on cushions inside.

Perhaps her new lover Theodosius was lying beside her. I envied the man, without wishing to swap places with him. Only a fool, or one blinded by lust and ambition, would dally with that lethal woman. If Belisarius found out, as he surely would eventually, he would feed Theodosius to his dogs. Usually a merciful man, I had seen Belisarius when his temper was roused, and still shuddered at the memory of the Vandal spy he had impaled on an iron stake outside the gates of Carthage.

The convoy reached the meeting point at Ostia without mishap, to find the fleet already disembarked and three thousand Isaurians encamped along the southern bank. They were in good spirits, though the journey from Constantinople had been long and fraught with danger, and grateful to be on dry land again after months at sea.

John summoned a council in the evening, which all captains were required to attend. No-one invited Antonina, but she came anyway, borne on a divan carried by four sweating Huns. I avoided her gaze, and she never even glanced at me. Her lover Theodosius, young and handsome in the old-fashioned Greek style, with curling fair locks and a neatly trimmed beard, stood behind the divan in a silver helm and cuirasse polished to mirror-like perfection.

Despite his soldierly appearance, everyone present knew what he was, and ignored him. No officer worth his pay was about to heed the suggestions of Antonina’s bedmate.

The council had barely started before an alarm sounded, and there was a disturbance to the east: men shouting, horns blowing, and the sound of racing hoofs.

“What’s happening, there?” shouted John. For a moment it seemed we had fallen prey to an ambush. A line of torches blazed into view, heralding the arrival of a band of armed riders.

The alarm and consternation died down when their banner became visible, displaying the familiar double-headed eagle of Rome. Under it rode another familiar sight, Belisarius himself, mounted on his white-faced bay. She had carried him through all his campaigns, from Syria to North Africa, Sicily and Italy, and enjoyed almost as much fame as her master.

We cheered the unexpected arrival of our general, but he was in no mood for ceremony. Lathered in dust and sweat, he wore a plain grey robe over his armour, and the flanks of his shuddering horse were slick with blood. He had a hundred Veterans at his back, hand-picked from his personal guard.

“How many men have you brought?” he snapped at John without exchanging greetings, his voice taut with anxiety.

John was used to more courteous treatment, and blinked before replying. “Ah…five thousand, sir,” he managed, “three thousand foot, and two thousand horse. I led the cavalry myself in a forced march across Campania after landing at Otranto…”

Belisarius wasn’t interested. “Five thousand!” he yelled, throwing up his hands, “God and the Saints, that is nowhere near enough! Why has the Emperor forsaken me? Have I not served him to the best of my ability? I gave him North Africa, I conquered Sicily without losing a single man, I have defended Rome against the worst that the barbarians can throw at me, and still he denies me the reinforcements I ask for!”

An embarrassed silence fell over the gathering of officers. Belisarius was beside himself, drawn and haggard and thinner than ever, his armour hanging awkwardly off his bony, meatless frame. What he said was almost, if not quite, treason, and there were many listening who might easily twist his words for their own ends.

He must have been desperate to take such an appalling risk, quitting the safety of Rome and riding through the Gothic lines with just a handful of guards. Perhaps he did so in the certain belief that Justinian had despatched a mighty army to save Rome. Grief and disappointment were etched on his face.

Antonina broke the silence. “My lord husband,” she said, “the Emperor must have sent every man he could find. There are rumours of plague in some of our provinces, and the imperial treasury is well-nigh exhausted.”

He gave her an evil look, narrowing his eyes when he spotted Theodosius, but said nothing. The general’s regard for his wife was well-known – indeed, it degraded him in the eyes of many – and even in his rage he would not rebuke or contradict her in public.

“King Vitiges has sent three ambassadors to Rome, asking for a truce,” he said, calming a little, “I have granted it. For the present, hostilities have ceased. Hence I was able to ride here tonight.”

He turned to John. “I came to urge you to bring your supplies into the city with all speed, while the truce lasts. It must be done now. Tonight. The Goths cannot be trusted, and may betray us at any moment.”

John spread his hands. “Now, sir? But our oxen are exhausted, and in any case the only road available to us is narrow and in poor repair. Our wagons cannot travel along it safely at any great speed.”

“You have a fleet, man,” Belisarius said impatiently, “use boats to transport the supplies.”

“But they would have to be towed upriver, sir,” replied John, “the only road that follows the stream is on the northern bank, in the hands of the enemy.”

I should have known better than to intervene, but wanted to impress Belisarius, and remind him of my presence.