Flame of the West (10 page)

  
“A general must look the part,” Belisarius had remarked, and insisted on supplying me with a gleaming lamellar cuirass, a conical helm with cheek-plates, a red cloak trimmed with rabbit fur, and a round shield displaying the Roman eagle. He even gave me a horse from his own private stock, a pureblood black stallion from Hispania.

   “I would offer you a new sword
as well,” he said with a grin, “but nothing on earth will persuade you to part with that relic at your hip.”

   “Nothing on earth,” I agreed, gripping the worn ivory hilt of Caledfwlch. The general’s eyes rested on it for a moment. I thought
I detected a spark of desire in them, but then he looked away.

   My orders were to advance slowly, giving Belisarius time to reach the Appenines and make his way through the rugged mountains towards
Rimini. The lighting of the fires was to coincide with his appearance before the walls and Hildiger’s seaborne assault from the west.

  
Procopius rode by my side. He was a born clerk, and looked ridiculous in his borrowed helmet and buckler.

   I nodded at th
e spatha, a long-bladed sword, dangling awkwardly from his hip. “Do you know how to use that?” I asked.

   He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “
I have watched many a battle. The principle is simple enough. I hit the enemy with my sword, and try and prevent him from hitting me in return.”

   In spite of my nerves, I had to smile
. “Look,” I said, pointing at the spatha, “it is heavier at one end and has a sharp chopping edge. You cut down with the edge. Let the extra weight do the work. Don’t put your whole strength into the blow, else you may wrench your shoulder. God help you if you miss.”

   “Noted, with thanks,” he replied, “but you need not fear for me. When the fighting starts, I shall take my accustomed place at the rear. Someone has to write down the account of your heroic exploits.”

   I looked ahead, into the veil of night, and shuddered. The Flaminian Way passed through a range of hills with mountains to the east. Somewhere beyond the mountains lay Rimini.

   Like a good l
ittle soldier, I had sent men ahead to spy out the land, and look for any Goths waiting in ambush. The greater part of the enemy host, according to Belisarius’ scouts, was concentrated around Rimini.

  
They had the city in a vice, though so far John the Sanguinary had repelled all their efforts to take the place by storm. He led numerous sallies from the walls, slaughtering hundreds of Goths and burning their siege-engines.

  
I had no cause to love John, but he was a brave and capable officer. A better soldier than me, certainly, though I had the virtue of loyalty.

   Loyalty
was of little use in my present situation. I could feel the crushing pressure of leadership and responsibility weighing down on my shoulders like a millstone. My thoughts were clouded with a host of fears and uncertainties, and I found it difficult to think of anything save my long-lost son in Ravenna.

   In short, I was not fit to command, and was terrified lest I fail Belisarius.

   “Why do you think John refused to hand over Rimini?” I asked Procopius, desperate to take my mind off Arthur, “do you think he is truly in league with Narses?”

   Procopius pursed his lips and thought for a moment. “They are friends, I know that much,” he replied, “
but it is impossible to say much more. Spying on Narses is like trying to punch mist. I suspect John acted on his own volition, which is why Narses was so co-operative at Fermo. He wants to drag his friend out of danger, and needs Belisarius to help him do so.”

  
“Belisarius thought Narses had come to Italy to fight him. He marched on Fermo expecting a battle.”

   Procopius sniggered. “Never. Narses cannot match Belisarius as a general, and was outnumbered two to on
e. He has his own game to play.”

   “He told me he was a reasonable chess player.”

   “An expert. I was fool enough to sit down to a game with him once. My king was slaughtered almost before I could blink. Now the whole of the Italian mainland is his chessboard.”

  
Our conversation died away as we neared Rimini. The lights of the city soon became visible, twinkling like stars, and around it the greater constellation of the enemy camp.

  
I called a halt, and ordered the first of our beacons to be laid on the summit of the hills flanking the highway. It was a warm summer’s night, and thankfully there was no hint of wind or rain.

   While the beacons were laid, I sat in silence on the road overlooking the city, nervously chewing my bottom lip until it bled.
My scouts returned unscathed, to report no sign of any Gothic outriders.

   “Vitiges is
neglectful,” said Procopius, “even after all his defeats and reverses, he has learned nothing.”

   “Thank God,” I said.

   We didn’t know it, but there was good reason for the lack of enemy activity. Far from being neglectful, Vitiges had sent out a strong detachment of cavalry to patrol the land south of Rimini and forage for supplies. They advanced too far, and in the darkness blundered into Belisarius’ vanguard as it emerged from the Appenines. While I sat and chewed my lip, a messy battle was being fought to the west.

   Belisarius charged up in time with the main body, and
after a hard right the Goths were routed, leaving a roughly equal number of dead and wounded strewn about the road.

   The
survivors fled back to their camp, where they tried to excuse their defeat by spreading panicky rumours of the size of the Roman host bearing down on Rimini from the mountains.

   Luck counts for a great deal in war. At about the same time as panic was spreading through the Gothic camp, my men lit the beacons.
The timber burned beautifully, and within moments the hills over the city were illuminated by two rising columns of flame.

   “Light the torches,” I commanded. Every man in my detachment carried a tor
ch or lantern, and now set fire to them.

   The beacons
were swiftly joined by hundreds of lesser lights. I ordered my cavalry to spread out along the ridges either side of the road. To the Goths below, it must have seemed as though the hills were on fire.

   At this crucial moment, I was
again seized with indecision. My orders were to advance at the same time as Belisarius and Hildiger, but I had no way of knowing their progress. I looked east and west, straining my eyes to make out any sign of my allies, but there was nothing. The mountains hid the fleet from view, and darkness shrouded the Appenines.

  
“You cannot linger,” Procopius whispered, “be decisive, and go forward.”

   “Five thousand
, against forty thousand Goths?” I hissed through gritted teeth, “what if the others fail to support our attack? We would be massacred.”

   “Better dead than disgraced.
You have no choice, Coel. Stop dithering. Advance.”

   I drew Caledfwlch and kissed the cold steel. It was blasphemous, but I was convinced my grandsire’s soul resided inside the blade: neither Heaven or Hell could possibly contain such a fierce spirit.

   Shaking off my fears and indecision, I gave the order to advance. My cavalry re-formed on the highway and moved forward at a slow trot, holding their torches aloft. 

   The city was still some five or six miles distant.
As we advanced, I kept my eyes fixed on the enemy camp. There were lights moving down there, and at first I feared the entire Gothic host was marching out to engage us.

   If so, I resolved to withdraw. Personal honour was all very fine, but I preferred to live with disgrace rather than the guilt of leading hundreds of men to their deaths.

   Hope flared inside me as I saw the lights disperse and scatter away from Rimini in all directions. The sound of distant war-horns reached my ears, booming across the countryside.

   I gripped Procopius’ arm. “Belisarius,” I said hoarsely, “and listen, there, to the east…Hildiger, it must be!
”

   Our forces were converging on
Rimini, exactly as planned. I urged my men on at the canter, all my doubts and fears blown away.

  
War-delight coursed through me, the strange excitement that seizes men on the verge of battle, turning cowards into heroes. When the fighting is over, the feeling ebbs, and they are left wondering at their own savage excesses.

   There was no battle. The Goths had panicked at the sight of our fires, as Belisarius predicted they would, and immediately raised the siege. Thousands streamed north, riding for
Ravenna as fast as their horses could carry them, while the infantry were left to shift for themselves.

   I rode into the deserted encampment, to find the forces of Belisarius and Hildiger already present in the city. The citizens had thrown open their gates to admit our troops, and
the night sky echoed to the thunder of church bells.

  
John the Sanguinary had remained inside Rimini until he was certain the Goths were retreating, and then unleashed his cavalry to plunder their baggage train. He took prisoners from among the wounded and the stragglers, and made a present of them to Belisarius, hoping to soothe the general’s wrath at his treachery.

  
Belisarius was not the sort to be won over by such crude bribes, but he let John go unpunished. Instead, while his officers were still distracted by the celebrations, Belisarius quietly dismissed him, and let him depart from Rimini with a small following.

   Whether he did this for political reasons, or to avoid casting a shadow over the joy of his easy victory, I cannot be certain. There were those who grumbled at it, and looked askance at the gener
al, wondering if he was losing his grip on affairs.

  
Narses had not marched with any part of the army, claiming that he was quite useless in war, and would only hinder the cause. The morning after the relief of Rimini, he arrived at the gates carried in a litter and escorted by eighteen of his
doryphori
.

  
“So this is war,” he piped when I greeted him at the Arch of Augustus, “it seems a rather bloodless affair. I have seen more casualties in the Hippodrome.”

   He sounded disappointed, and fanned himself with a fly-whisk. “A foully hot day,” he said, stifling a yawn, “I long for a cool bath and a massage. Where is our conquering general?”
   “In the fortress, lord,” I replied, “where he awaits your arrival.”
   “Another council of war? How trying. No sooner do we win one battle, then we must start planning the next. I dislike being made to work.”

   His b
ored manner was an illusion. All the while his agile mind was churning out schemes to foil Belisarius and discredit him in the eyes of the Emperor.

   Belisarius wa
s keen to follow up his victory and stamp out the last embers of the Gothic presence in Italy. The citizens of Milan, capital of Liguria, had recently revolted against the Goths in favour of Rome, and driven out the garrison. Vitiges could not afford to lose one of the most important cities in northern Italy, and sent part of his army to besiege it.

  
At the council in Rimini Belisarius announced that the army would split in two, one part to besiege Ravenna, the other to relieve Milan.

   “I have already sent a thousand cavalry to encourage native resistance in that region,” he declared, “but more troops are needed to invest the city.”

   Narses chose this moment to show his hand. “Milan is far to the north,” he said, “I see no reason to divide our forces, slender as they are, and send one part on some hopeless sortie. Let Milan fend for itself. When Ravenna falls, all the Goths in Italy will lay down their arms.”

   All eyes turned to the eunuch, who revelled in the attention. “Of course,” he added
complacently, “if Belisarius wishes to send some of his own troops away, that is his affair. But none of my seven thousand shall go with them.”

  
White-faced, Belisarius scraped back his chair and rose to his full, impressive height. “Are you denying my authority?” he asked in the steely tone I had come to know and dread.

   “Not within its proper limits. You have no authority over the troops I brought to
Italy. They are mine.”

   Belisarius seemed to have expected some form of resistance. He gestured at Narses, who rose and produced a sheet of vellum from inside his robe.

   “This,” he said, brandishing the vellum, “is a private letter sent by the Emperor to Belisarius. It reads as follows. Hearken to the words of Justinian.”

   He unfolded the letter and read out its contents in ringing tones.

   “In sending Narses, our private treasurer, to Italy, we have no intention that he should, in any degree, control or direct the war; we desire that Belisarius should still remain invested with supreme authority, and be implicitly obeyed in all his undertakings for the public good.”