David Pilling: Siege of Rome

A slave admitted us via the postern gate, and led us across silent, torch-lit gardens towards an arched doorway. Lights blazed in the windows of the ground floor. The door opened onto the narrow vestibule, and beyond that lay the atrium, a large, open central court with a circular pool in the middle.

We followed the gravel path around the pool, towards the double doors at the northern end. These were guarded by two of Belisarius’ Veterans, hard-looking men in scale armour, armed with round shields and long spears. They glanced at us suspiciously, but did nothing as the slave pushed open the doors and beckoned us through.

Inside was a large, rectangular chamber with a high roof and a beautifully inlaid mosaic floor. It was a warm night in early spring, so there was no fire laid in the great stone hearth. Three arched and colonnaded doorways led off to other parts of the house, but all my attention was fixed on the three men seated on couches in the middle of the room.

One of the men was Belisarius. As ever, he looked uncomfortable out of military uniform, and his loose robes and fringed mantle hung awkwardly from his tall, bony frame.

His companion to his left was Mundus, the hulking German mercenary and magister militum of all the Roman forces in Illyria and along the Danubian frontier. I had last seen him during the Nika riots, when he led four hundred Huns to slaughter ten thousand Roman citizens. It was impossible to imagine the brute in civilian dress, and despite the heat he was decked out in his usual furs and leathers.

The presence of these two powerful men was intimidating enough, but the third surprised and frightened me.

“Good evening, Coel,” said Narses, his ugly face stretched into a smile, “you are fully recovered, I hope. Hardy barbarian stock, eh?”

He was not a welcome or pleasant sight. The last time I was summoned into the presence of Narses and Belisarius, they had coerced me into accompanying the Roman expedition to North Africa, so I could help steal Caledfwlch from Gelimer, the mad King of the Vandals.

After my return to Constantinople, Narses had rescued me from being boiled alive by Theodora’s assassins. I should have felt grateful to him for that, but he was a skilled and subtle politico, and not the sort to do anything except for his own profit. By saving me he offended and humiliated the Empress, and thus reduced her influence.

He was dwarfish little monstrosity, hardly bigger than a child, limping his way through life on a pair of twisted legs. God had seen fit to bring Narses only half-formed into the world. His physical afflictions were offset by an agile brain and burning ambition, and he had risen high in the world through sheer force of will and intellect. Anyone who judged the dwarf on his feeble appearance did so at their peril.

“My lords,” I said, with a stilted bow.

The three men had been sitting in silence when we entered, and the air fairly crackled with the tension between them. Belisarius and Mundus were allies and friends, of a sort, but both distrusted Narses. For good reason: the eunuch once cheerfully informed me that anyone who trusted him was a fool, and deserved an early grave.

For all his ugliness, Narses had acquired a certain degree of practiced charm. He rose, or rather dropped, from his seat, and patted the cushion next to his, inviting me to sit.

“Dismissed,” growled Mundus, waving away the Huns. They stamped their feet, turned smartly and marched outside. The slave closed the doors behind them and melted into the shadows.

“Wine for the champion of the arena,” said Narses, waddling over to the low table beside his couch, “wine for the latest hero of Rome.”

Embarrassed, I limped over to the couch and sat, while Narses poured out a rich, red flow from an elegantly fluted silver jug. He handed me the cup and regarded me with something like affection.

“You did splendidly in the arena,” he said, “Theodora’s face was sheer artistry for days afterwards. I have seldom seen her so enraged.”

He sighed happily. “Bliss to behold, I assure you, though I doubt her servants would agree. Their lives have been hell, ever since you plunged your magic sword into Leo’s heart.”

In truth Leo had fallen onto the blade, but now was not the time to quibble. “I am sorry for that,” I replied cautiously, “I never meant to cause any suffering. I have never done anything save follow my conscience.”

Belisarius had been watching me closely. “No man who listens to his conscience can thrive for long in this city,” he said, “it is a pit of snakes. The sooner we are gone, the better.”

Narses smiled indulgently. “Our famous general is too good for politics,” he said, winking at me, “in his world, honest men with swords defend the frontiers of the Empire, while corrupt eunuchs and former prostitutes do their best to undermine the state from within. Where is your wife tonight, Flavius?”

Belisarius’ jaw tightened. He clearly despised Narses, but for some unfathomable reason had invited the eunuch to his house.

“You know very well,” he replied, with forced patience, “Antonina was summoned to the palace tonight.”

“As she is most nights. Antonina and Theodora hatch plots together in the Empress’s private quarters, while we do the same here. Does the Emperor plot, I wonder? And if so, with whom?”

Mundus shifted impatiently. “I came here to talk of the war,” he grunted, “not to chop words and exchange clever insults. I see no reason why we could not have met in open council during the day, instead of creeping about like a pack of thieves in the dark.”

“He is the reason,” said Narses, pointing at me, “and that pig-sticker he carries.”

I touched the hilt of Caledfwlch, which I had strapped on before leaving the sanatorium. Having gone to such lengths to retrieve my grandsire’s sword, I never let it out of my sight.

“Show us the sword, Coel,” ordered Belisarius. He spoke with the voice of stern authority, and almost without thinking I drew Caledfwlch from its sheath.

Mundus lent forward and squinted at the blade as I held it up to the light. “I see an old-fashioned gladius,” he said, “with two golden eagles stamped in the hilt.”

“Caesar’s sword,” Narses explained, “wielded by old Julius himself, and said to have been forged by Vulcan himself in the depths of Mount Olympus. Lost in the mists of Albion for centuries, until it fell into the hands of Coel’s ancestor. Some grubby warlord or other.”

He hesitated, snapping his fingers and pretending that he had forgotten my grandsire’s name. The eunuch loved to play-act and provoke others. Once, I might have fallen for the bait, but was too canny to snap at it now.

“Arthur,” I said calmly, taking a long swallow of the excellent wine, “his name was Arthur.”

“Just so,” said Narses, smiling sweetly at me, “not just any sword, but a symbol and an icon of rare power. Gelimer would have used it to unite the barbarian nations of the world under his banner and destroy the Empire. It must never fall into the wrong hands.”

He held out his right hand, palm upwards. “Give it to me.”

I slammed Caledfwlch back into its sheath. “Never. That is one order I cannot obey. I will die first.”

“Coel speaks the truth,” said Belisarius, “I tried to persuade him to give it up in Carthage. He refused. The sword is part of him.”

Narses responded to defeats by pretending they hadn’t happened. “I merely tested you, Coel,” he said, lowering his hand, “you are every bit as brave and honest as I feared. But you must not stay in Constantinople. Your enemies multiply.”

He snapped his fingers, and a slave emerged from a shadowy corner, carrying a dark blue woolen cloak scarce big enough to fit a child. He draped it over Narses’ lumpen shoulders.