David Pilling - Flame of the West

He continued to whine and whimper, like a kicked dog, until I was sick of the sight and sound (and smell) of him. I would have preferred to throw him out into the street, but it seemed his colleague Gaius still intended to go through with the plan. Belisarius had to be alerted.

I took the man by the arm and half-led, half-dragged him through the streets to the general’s house. After speaking with the Veterans on the door, who recognised me, I was permitted an audience with their chief.

Belisarius sat and listened in grim silence to Cassius, who made an even more abject display of himself. When he was done, and his words had died away in a gruesome mess of tears and snot, Belisarius continued to sit in silence.

I recognised the signs, and feared for Cassius. Some men rant and rave when they lose their temper, but Belisarius was at his most dangerous like this, quiet and pensive.

He was out of all patience, having spent several days wrangling with Gothic ambassadors who offered him nothing and expected gratitude in return. Besides which, he despised spies and traitors, and they tended to rouse him to uncharacteristic acts of cruelty.

“Take this man,” he said, turning to the captain of his guard, “he will lead you to his accomplice, a man named Gaius. Arrest Gaius and bring him to me.”

Cassius was spared punishment, for which he was pathetically grateful, and the force of the general’s wrath fell on his hapless colleague.

Gaius was arrested at his house and brought before Belisarius. He was given no opportunity to explain himself. His nose was slit, his ears were sliced off, and his trembling, mutilated form bound and gagged and mounted on an ass, which Belisarius ordered driven out of Rome.

The beast and her luckless burden found their way to the Gothic camp and the pavilion of King Vitiges, who beheld the bleeding ruin of his last hope with despair.

Belisarius now regarded the fragile truce as broken, and immediately despatched orders to John the Sanguinary, commanding him to invade Picenum. John proved to be a greater soldier than I could have imagined. He led his cavalry on a swift and brilliant campaign, massacring the Gothic troops in the region and laying siege to the cities of Urbino and Osimo.

Like all our captains, John also had an eye to his own profit, and mercilessly pillaged the countryside we had supposedly come to liberate. At last, with the land behind him thick with corpses and rank with the stench of fire and death, he arrived before the gates of Rimini, only a day’s ride from the Gothic capital at Ravenna.

In spite of John’s merciless plundering, the natives rallied to his banner, swelling the numbers of his little army. Alarmed by the size of the Roman host, the Gothic garrison of Rimini panicked, abandoning the city and fleeing with all haste for the safety of the capital.

At this point, King Vitiges finally lost his nerve. All his efforts to retake Rome had come to nothing, his capital was threatened by our troops, and his army weakened by famine and desertions. Out-thought and outmanoeuvred by his rival Belisarius, sick at heart from all his defeats and disappointments, he reluctantly gave orders for a general retreat.

After over a year of hard fighting, the Eternal City was once again part of the Empire.

On the morning of the twenty-first of March in the year of Our Lord Five Hundred and Thirty-Eight, one year and nine days after the siege of Rome began, I was shaken awake in my dingy quarters by an excited cavalry subaltern.

“Sir, sir!” he yelled in my ear, disturbing my pleasant dream of silken whores and honeyed wine, “you must wake up, sir, and come with me at once! All officers are summoned to muster by the Flaminian Gate!”

I tumbled out of bed, muttering darkly under my breath, and allowed the subaltern to help me dress and arm in the semi-darkness. He was a native of Spoleto, one of the eager young volunteers who had flocked to join our army as soon as it set foot on the Italian mainland. He served as my trumpeter in the detachment of cavalry John the Sanguinary had given me command of, and wore me out with his spirit and enthusiasm.

It was early in the morning, far too early for civilised men to be up and active. I could hear the sound of distant trumpets ringing through the city.

“What’s happening?” I demanded blearily, struggling out of my nightshirt, “have the Goths launched a sudden attack?”

“Far from it, sir!” Lucius panted, his beardless face shining with soap and warlike ardour, “the enemy are in full retreat – they are burning their palisades and fortified camps, and streaming back towards the Milvian Bridge! Oh sir, you must come to the walls and see for yourself, it is a glorious sight. The sky is lit up with fire! We have won!”

His excitement was infectious. I shook away the clouds of sleep and dressed hurriedly, snatching a swig of wine from the jug on my bedside table and a bit of bread for my breakfast.

We clattered down the stairs and into the street, which was full of armed men hurrying towards the Flaminian Gate. Horns and bugles echoed through the city, summoning soldiers to their duty. The citizens were careful to stay indoors, though some of the bravest threw open their upper-storey windows and complained at the noise.

One wretched old woman emptied the contents of her chamber-pot on us, soaking Lucius and splashing my best cloak with urine, but there was no time for recriminations.

We hurried on, to find the square before the Flaminian Gate packed with troops. The gates were open, and columns of horse and foot were filing through it in good order to re-deploy on the wide plain beyond.

“Go and rouse our men,” I ordered Lucius, “and fetch them here at once, mounted and ready for battle.”

He saluted and rushed away in the direction of the Field of Mars, where my levies were billeted. Some three hundred remained under my command. As a mere centenar, I should not have been in charge of so many, but Belisarius had not appointed anyone else in my stead. Either he forgot to choose a more senior officer, or wanted me to prove my worth.

I hurried past the squadrons of infantry, Isaurian spearmen and archers for the most part, towards a group of mounted officers. Their chief was Bessas, Belisarius’ second-in-command, a tough, capable officer with the appearance and general demeanour of a disgruntled hawk.

“Sir,” I cried, halting at a respectful distance and ripping off a salute, “what is happening? Have the Goths quit the siege?”

He switched his attention from the marching columns of infantry, and fastened his dark little eyes on me.

“Ah, Britannicus,” he said, using the old name Theodora gave me in the arena, “yes, the Goths have packed it in, and we’re marching out to wave goodbye. Where the hell are your men?”

I reddened. “On their way, sir. The call to arms took me by surprise.”

Bessas grunted. “A good officer doesn’t wallow in bed when he hears the trumpet sound. He jumps to it, by God! Still, you’re not the only laggard in our ranks. The army is not what it was. When your men finally graces us with their presence, lead them out of Rome and take up position on the left wing, behind the Huns. When the Huns advance, you will support them. Understand?”

“Sir,” I saluted again and withdrew, grateful to be spared anything more than a tongue-lashing. Bessas was a fearsome disciplinarian, and made no distinction between officers and men when doling out field punishments.

Our army was sallying out in force, leaving scarcely a man behind to defend the city. Belisarius, who was already outside at the head of the vanguard, meant to pursue the Goths and catch them before they could withdraw across the Milvian Bridge.