David Pilling: Siege of Rome

He swallowed some wine and dabbed his lips with a cloth. “God grant that Theodatus is as stupid as he seems,” he added, “and sends the largest portion of his forces to relieve Salona. Then Italy will be ripe for the taking.”

Our best hope of victory lay in the folly of Theodatus, whose wisdom did not extend beyond his academic studies. His murder of Amalasontha was the act of a savage and a political child, for it gave Rome the perfect excuse to try and retake her homeland.

The odds were still stacked against us. Despite his outward confidence, Belisarius was well aware of that. Already old before his time, he seemed to age before my eyes, and I started to fear for his health. If he broke down or even – God forbid! – died, there was no-one to protect me.

By the beginning of autumn, all was ready. My gentle confinement finally came to an end, and I was smuggled out of Belisarius’ house one moonless night with the same Hunnish escort that had brought me there. The seven of us, muffled up in dark hoods and cloaks, hurried down to the docks, where a boat was waiting to row me out to Belisarius’ flagship.

If there were spies watching us from the shadows, none tried to impede our progress. The Huns were armed with swords and braces of knives under their cloaks, and I had Caledfwlch, so it would have gone hard for any that tried.

The harbour was relatively quiet, with just a few groups of weary Egyptian sailors stockpiling bales of fodder and other supplies ready to be carried out to the fleet. They paid no heed to us, or the troop of soldiers with torches waiting for us at a jetty.

A tall, bareheaded man stood among the mailed and helmed soldiers. We had never spoken, but I recognized him instantly as he stepped forward to greet me.

His name is famous now, but at this time Procopius of Caesarea was still a young man, and relatively unknown. A Jewish scholar and historian, he had acted as Belisarius’ legal advisor, secretary and general confidante on the African campaign. He was no soldier, but did not lack for courage, and had undertaken several dangerous missions on the general’s behalf.

In person he was of medium height, and always put me in mind of a starving bird of prey. His body was lean, with long arms and legs, and his oversized head was stuck on the end of a scrawny neck. Prominent cheekbones, slightly protruding eyes, thin lips and a long, hooked nose completed the effect.

“Hurry, he whispered, casting anxious glances over my shoulder, “before the wolves that tracked you here find the courage to strike.”

“I saw no-one,” I said as the Huns bundled me down the ladder into the boat. He sniffed and folded his arms tight against his skinny chest.

“Of course you didn’t,” he muttered, his big eyes narrowing to slits as he peered into the darkness, “the Empress employs professionals. You wouldn’t know they were near until you felt steel in your back.”

The waters were calm, but the boat rocked alarmingly when my foot slipped on the lowest rung. I dropped into it like a stone and incurred the displeasure of the oarsman, who cursed me for a handless idiot.

“Quiet, you fools!” hissed Procopius, “do you want the entire city to hear? Perhaps we should bang a gong, or sing a few hymns?”

He hitched up his robe and made his way awkwardly down the ladder, exposing a good deal of pale thigh. His descent into the boat was scarcely less clumsy than mine, but the oarsman evidently knew better than to curse Belisarius’ private secretary. Biting his lip, he poled us out into the harbour.

Procopius hunkered down in the stern, and sat eyeing me with cool interest. “Coel ap Amhar,” he said, with a decent stab at British pronunciation, “I have watched your progress for some time now. The refugee who became a slave, who became a charioteer, who became a soldier. Equally at home in the Hippodrome, or the camp of the Heruli, or the imperial court.”

He rested his chin on his fist. “Your face is a blank canvas. Any number of personas can be painted on it and wiped clean, ready for the next. A play-actor.”

I bridled at that. “I am nothing of the sort,” I replied, careful to keep my voice low, “and have never pretended to be anything I am not. I do what is necessary to survive.”

“Of course. As we all do. But a great deal is necessary in order to survive in Constantinople. You have made your way in the city for over thirty years. From the gutter to an officer in Belisarius’ personal guard. Quite a tale.”

My pride gave a flicker. “I am still in the gutter,” I said, “you know my name, but not my quality. I am Coel ap Amhar ap Arthur, grandson of the First Warlord of the Island of the Mighty, descendent of the ancient line of British princes and kings. The blood of Coel Hen, ruler of the North, grandsire of Constantine the Great, runs in my veins.”

Procopius rubbed his thin hands and gave an enigmatic smile. “Belisarius told me you were proud. I suppose a man with nothing save his name and an old sword must cleave to pride. Step carefully, Coel, and be wary lest you fall further.”

He said nothing more, but lapsed into a brooding silence as the boat sculled across the dark waters to the looming bulk of Belisarius’ flagship.

This was the largest galley in the fleet, and one of the few old-fashioned Roman warships still in use. It was of the type called a bireme, with two staggered banks of oars and a long, narrow prow. Biremes were usually propelled by oars, with just a single sail, but this had been converted into a three-mast vessel. Unlike the lumbering transports and the smaller dromons, the galley had a sleek, dangerous look, and resembled some kind of dormant sea-monster as she lay resting at anchor inside the harbour.

We drew alongside, and a rope-ladder was let down the side. I was the first up, helped aboard by two brawny Sicilians.

I half-expected Belisarius to be there to greet me, but doubtless the general had more pressing matters to attend to. The ship’s captain, a heavy-set Greek with a long pink scar running from his temple to his jaw, regarded me with impatience.

“You’re to get below,” he said, jerking his thumb at the hatchway leading to the bowels of the ship, “and stay there until sent for. Quickly, if you please. I haven’t slept for two bloody days, and there is still much to do.”

I obeyed, and clambered down the ladder into the damp, musty-smelling space below deck. Even though the ship lay at anchor in peaceful waters, her gentle motion was enough to make my guts churn a little. The smell of tar and the salt tang of the sea in my nostrils brought back memories of the nightmarish voyage to Africa.

Procopius followed me down the ladder. “I am also a poor sailor,” he said, noting my pained expression, “but with luck our voyage shall be a short one.”

“Why do I have to hide down here?” I demanded, trying to ignore the thought of being cooped up below deck in a pool of my own vomit when the fleet sailed for Sicily.

“Your enemies may or may not know where you are,” he replied, “I have little doubt you were followed from Belisarius’ house, but the agents of Narses and Theodora cannot touch you here, aboard the general’s own flagship. This is his territory. Any violation of it would be perceived as a direct insult to Belisarius. Whatever petty grudges and feuds that may exist, Rome cannot afford to alienate its greatest soldier.”

He pursed his thin lips and leaned against a bulkhead. “For now, at any rate. If Belisarius fails in Italy, he will be dead or disgraced, and you will be fair game.”

I had discerned as much, and was anxious to get away from Constantinople as far and as swiftly as possible. “When does the fleet put to sea?” I asked.

“Tomorrow, if all goes to plan. Mundus is already laying siege to Salona, and Belisarius can afford no delay.”