David Pilling: Siege of Rome

The secretary came, grumbling and rubbing his eyes, and looked startled at the scene laid out before him. Just a few short hours ago, we had been sitting and prosing around a camp-fire, and now here I was on trial for my life.

“Coel,” said Belisarius when I was brought before his chair, “this is a grave matter. Have you anything to say?”

“Just this,” I replied, looking him square in the eye, “the charges against me are patently false. You know me, sir, and that I have never looked for private gain. I have very little in this world, but that little contents me. The notion that I would steal into another officer’s bedchamber and take his possessions is absurd.”

Procopius loudly cleared his throat and looked to Belisarius for permission to speak. It was granted with a nod from the chair, and he turned to fix Presidius with a malicious eye.

“Are we to believe,” he said, speaking slowly and clearly, every word dripping with sarcasm, “that Coel, a fine officer who has done nothing but distinguish himself in the service of Rome, decided to implicate himself in such a clumsy and foolish crime? And that Presidius” – here he stabbed an accusing finger at the quaking Italian – “simply lay there in bed as the thief went about his work, too frightened to challenge him or raise the alarm? Would not a soldier of Rome, even such a mediocre one as this, have made some attempt to defend his property?”

Presidius nervously rubbed his hands, and attempted to summon up the ghost of his old arrogance.

“My courage is not on trial here,” he squeaked, “I was somewhat mazed with drink, and the sudden appearance of the thief surprised me. He was gone almost before I could speak.”

“Ah!” Procopius clasped his hands. “You were the worse for wine. So drunk, in fact, you neglected to lock and bar your door before retiring?”

Presidius gave a nervous little jerk of his head, and replied this was so.

“And you are certain the thief was Coel?” Procopius pressed, “mazed, as you put it, with drink, you were able to see him?

“I keep a candle burning through the night,” replied the other, his voice unsteady and thick with deceit, “the light fell across Coel’s face as he ran from the room. I am certain, beyond a shred of doubt, that it was him.”

Procopius paused for a moment, frowning and pulling at his lower lip. “Seven days,” he said at last, “you waited seven days before bringing this charge against the accused. Why wait?”

“Rome was under threat, and every man was needed to meet the Goths in the field. I did not wish to harm our cause with an unnecessary distraction.”

It was feeble stuff, and I could see Procopius champing at the bit to tear Presidius’s story to shreds, but now Photius intervened.

“Consider, sirs,” he said, “Coel is a poor man, and getting on in years. Despite his fine record of service, he is still unmarried and childless, with no property and no money save his soldier’s wage. His only possession is an old sword of little value beyond the sentimental. He sees a brother officer, a lesser man than he in terms of merit and ability, but possessed of wealth in the form of two golden daggers.”

He snapped his fingers. “Something breaks under the strain of envy and greed. He casts aside his honour, the honour that has brought him nothing save a couple of minor promotions and a host of old wounds, and stoops to base robbery. Presidius came to speak with me earlier this evening. Acting on his information, we arrested Coel and found the daggers on his person.”

“Liar!” I shouted, goaded beyond measure, but his guards hauled me back. My fingers convulsed, aching to wrap around his throat.

Belisarius didn’t know what to make of it. He might have thrown out the charge of theft as ridiculous and ill-founded, if not for the involvement of Photius. Once again, Antonina proved to be the blind spot in his judgment. For his darling wife’s sake, he had always looked on her son with affection, and struggled to believe that he would willingly participate in some crude plot against a fellow officer.

The general drew himself up. “This affair shall be deferred until tomorrow evening,” he said, “for now, we have far more pressing matters to attend to. Until then, the daggers shall be restored to their owner, and Coel shall be confined to barracks.”

I felt relieved at his judgment. Deferring the trial until the next day, when he was refreshed and could think clearly, was just the respite I had hoped for. Viewed in the cold and unforgiving light of day, the case against me would seem even more flimsy.

Constantine, the fool, chose this moment to intervene. “This trial is a sham,” he declared, stepping between me and Belisarius, “and I can prove it with my own testimony.”

“Be silent, man,” snapped Bessas, but Constantine ignored him.

“Presidius is mistaken,” he said, “for it was not Coel who stole into his chamber and took the daggers. It was me.”

A stunned silence fell over the hall. I stared at Constantine, and for a second wondered if he had run mad. Then the truth dawned: he was sacrificing himself on my behalf, as payment for rescuing him. He had often promised to clear the debt between us, in spite of my protests, and here was his opportunity.

To my eternal shame, I let him do it. I opened my mouth to deny his testimony, but the words stuck in my throat. Survival was all, and my instinct for self-preservation proved stronger than my sense of honour.

The affair was now clearly beyond Belisarius. He gaped like a landed fish at Constantine, raised his hands, and lowered them again. Photius and Presidius were at a total loss – this wasn’t part of their scheme – and Antonina’s face was a mask of barely concealed fury. Seeing her so distraught went a little way to compensating for my shame.

The game was slipping away from her, but she was not quite swept from the board. With a rustle of silks, she rose from her couch and approached Belisarius’ chair.

“A crime has been committed,” she said, resting a pale hand, glimmering with silver rings, on her husband’s shoulder, “it is your duty to see that justice is done, and the offender punished. Whoever he may be.”

Her eyes briefly met mine. There was no patronising mockery in them now, just sheer hatred burning like twin flames in the depths of her irises.

For once, Belisarius resisted her will. “I make no judgments tonight,” he said, gently patting her hand, “we must have more time to consider the facts. It is a complex case, and Coel deserves a fair trial.”

Constantine panicked. “No!” he shouted, “we will have a judgment now!”

God help me, he drew his sword and rushed at Belisarius. The general’s instincts saved him. He threw himself sideways out of his chair – a half-second earlier, and the blade would have plunged into his heart.

The whole incident lasted mere seconds, but is engraved on my memory in a sequence of tableaus, like friezes carved from stone. Bessas and Troglita leaped on Constantine and bore him to the ground. His sword clattered on the tiles as it was wrenched from his grip.

Panting, but unhurt, Belisarius got to his feet, gesturing at his wife to stand back. She looked genuinely frightened, though whether from concern for his well-being, or the loss of prestige she would suffer if he died, I could not tell. Events had now spiraled beyond her control, and she was incapable of wresting back the initiative.

Or so I thought. For assaulting a superior officer with intent to kill, Constantine had condemned himself to death. It was a split-second decision, and perhaps by doing so he hoped to absolve me completely. Certainly, the focus was now on him.

He was entitled to a trial, just as I was. While Bessas and Troglita held Constantine down, Antonina took her husband to one side and spoke urgently to him. I cast a hopeless glance at Procopius, who looked solemn and gave a little shake of his head, as if warning me not to do or say anything unwise.