Flame of the West (16 page)

   First, he had to formally claim the crown from Vitiges.
Clad in his golden ceremonial armour, he dismounted before the steps of the palace, and entered on foot with two hundred Veterans marching at his back. The imperial banner was put aside, and trumpeters and drummers announced his arrival, filling the halls of Theoderic’s palace with triumphant noise. 

   I marched in the front rank of Veterans, between Bessas and Hildiger.
Procopius hurried to keep step beside us, carrying a folded robe of purple and gold silk. Imperial robes, destined to be draped over his master’s shoulders at the height of the crowning ceremony.

   We expected no resistance, and encountered none. Vitiges had ordered his guards to lay down their arms. The proudest of them had refused, and languished in chains under the palace, but the rest knelt in submission as we marched past
. No longer soldiers of an independent Gothic kingdom, but subjects of Belisarius, King-Emperor of the West.

  
Vitiges and his chief councillors were waiting for us in the throne room. The ex-King of the Goths, now dressed in a plain blue mantle and tunic, stood at the foot of the steps leading to the vacant throne. Queen Matasontha had already left him, departing from Ravenna in a cloud of dust and disapproval. A few loyal attendants had gone with her, along with several ox-drawn wagons containing her share of the royal treasure.

   Four trembling old councillors, dressed in plain robes, knelt in the middle of the avenue leading to the throne. Between them the
y held a purple cushion. On the cushion gleamed the crown of Italy. A slender silver diadem, studded with flashing gemstones.

   Without even glancing at the crown, Belisarius swept past the old men. Vitiges knelt in submission, but the general ignored him also, and mounted the steps of the dais.

   The trumpets rang out once more, and his Veterans crashed to a halt. Belisarius turned to face us. A proud, imposing figure, tall and soldierly and dignified. Born to wear the purple.

  
I pictured Justinian, sitting in the heart of the Great Palace in Constantinople. Soon enough he would hear of his general’s betrayal, and soil himself in terror.

   Belisarius
beckoned to Procopius, who climbed the steps of the dais and stood beside him.

   “
Bring forth the crown,” he ordered, his voice full of confidence and authority. This was the true voice of Caesar.

   The aged coun
cillors struggled to their feet and advanced slowly across the mosaic. Their rheumy eyes were full of fear. Vitiges shuffled aside on his knees to make space for them. He was a sorry sight, utterly cowed and defeated, forced to watch his enemy take the crown he had failed to defend.

  
One of the old men, the least decrepit, reverently lifted the crown from its cushion and limped up the steps. Wincing at the cracking in his bony knees, he abased himself before Belisarius and offered up the crown.

  
Belisarius looked at it for the first time. An expectant silence hung over the chamber. He slowly stretched out his right hand and held it hovering over the precious diadem.

   The
hand curled into a fist.

   “Soldiers,” he cried
, “arrest these men, in the name of Rome and the Emperor Justinian.”

18.

The shadows lengthen in my cell. Winter has come. Her bony fingers creep through the thick walls of our abbey, touching the hearts of those who lack the strength to withstand her.

   I am one of them. This shall be my last winter on earth, for which I thank God in
His mercy. My spirit is ready to fly, to break free of this crumbling stronghold of flesh and bone, and look for its salvation.

   Or damnation, if the Lord wills. I have done enough good and evil in my life to warrant either.
Strange to think that, left to myself, I would have happily lived out my days in peaceful obscurity. For fifty years I was used by others before finding a degree of repose here, in this quiet abbey.

  
The abbot, Gildas, disapproves of my writings. “A Christian monk should spend his time in prayer and contemplation,” he is fond of saying, “not recording the sins and sorrows of his past.”

   My answer is always the same. “What of your own histories, lord?” I ask in the mock-humble tone I know irritates him.

   “They are sermons, Coel, not histories,” he huffs, “intended to condemn the kings of Britain for their sins, and warn future generations to heed the word of the Lord.”

   We spend much of our remaining time like th
is, two old men, sitting in a freezing cell and arguing. It is one way to stay warm.

  
Gildas is famed for his learning and acerbic writing style. He keeps an extensive library – his only luxury – and is known to some as Gildas the Wise. His major work,
On the Ruin and Conquest of Britain,
describes events in Britain from the arrival of the legions to our own time.

   It is a history, whatever he might claim,
though shamelessly inaccurate and larded with the righteous fury of a holy man who thinks his people have abandoned God.

   His chronicle makes no mention of my grandsire, the man who united the Britons, at least for a time, and held the land safe against barbarian conquest for twenty-one years. I have begged and pleaded with Gildas to
relent, but he will have none of it.

   “Arthur was a tyrant,” he
says firmly, “an uncrowned king who ruled by mere force of arms, and without legitimate authority. I care not how many battles he won against the heathen. He shall play no part in my narrative. I draw a veil over him.”

   I know the true reasons
for Gildas’ silence. Arthur executed a number of his kinsmen, British princes who rebelled against Arthur’s authority and (God grant the abbot never reads this) forged treacherous alliances with the Saxons.

   Treachery. It has been the constant theme of my life.
Of all the betrayals and disappointments, the one that hurt me most, and defined the remainder of my life, was the one committed by Belisarius in the throne room of Theoderic’s palace in Ravenna.

   To do him credit, he made some effort to explain his actions to me, on the eve of his departure for
Constantinople. Justinian had recalled him, not in disgrace – even he could not deny Belisarius’ achievements in Italy – but not in triumph either. The general’s enemies at court, headed by Narses, ensured Justinian’s gratitude was forever poisoned by envy and suspicion. 

  
“I am sorry,” were his first words to me, when he summoned me to his quarters in the palace, “sorry for deceiving you. It was necessary. You must understand.”

   We were in the old royal chambers, once the private residence of Vitiges and his queen. In common with the rest of the palace, the floors were decorated with startling mosaics of man
y hues and complex designs, the walls pillared and colonnaded in white marble.

   The ex-King of the Goths
was now an honoured captive, destined to be taken back to Constantinople aboard Belisarius’ flagship. Like Gelimer before him, he would be paraded along the Mese in chains before the cheering populace as the latest trophy of war. His ultimate fate would be decided by Justinian, who had done little to defeat the brave Gothic king, and much to undermine the efforts of his own troops.

   “Why?” I asked simply, “why was it necessary?”

   Belisarius had the grace to look uncomfortable. “I needed to persuade Vitiges that I really intended to betray the Emperor. It was the only way of securing Ravenna without a siege. There was no better of making him believe the lie than sending an envoy who also believed it.”

  
“Unworthy of me, I know,” he said helplessly, “I daresay you expected better of your general. But it was a legitimate ruse of war. Consider, Coel. The city freely opened its gates to us, and not one Roman soldier died. Italy is restored to the Empire. We have achieved everything we set out to do here.”

   “At the price of your honour,” I pointed out.

   The scene of chaos in the throne room, after Belisarius had ordered his Veterans to arrest the Gothic councillors, was still vivid in my mind.

   It was all pre-planned.
Bessas and Hildiger rushed forward before I knew what was happening. The old men were seized, bleating feebly in protest. Vitiges tried to make a fight of it, but he was unarmed, and two of our Huns cracked his head against a pillar. He slumped to the ground, bleeding from his mouth and nostrils, and was quickly trussed up and dragged away.

   Belisarius plucked the crown of
Italy from its cushion between finger and thumb, and held it at arm’s length.

   “This
degraded object,” he said contemptuously, “shall adorn no more ambitious heads. Take it away.”

   He tossed it to his soldiers, who laughed and threw it about among themselves. Finally a grinning officer seized it and tucked it into his belt, to the good-natured groans of his men.

   “My honour?” said Belisarius, back in the present, “what is that worth, compared to the glory of Rome? Those fools in Ravenna thought I was prepared to betray Caesar. They will have ample leisure to reflect on their mistake.

   “So did I,
sir,” I reminded him, “time and again you promoted me, above my ability, and made a false promise regarding my homeland. You told me the Western Empire would be restored under your stewardship. That I would return to Britain at the head of an army, to drive out the barbarians threatening to destroy it. You made me dream impossible dreams, all for the sake of your ambition.”

   “No,” he replied sternly, wagging a finger, “for the sake of
Rome. Yes, I lied to you. I apologise. But you deserved the promotions. I have no more loyal and capable officer in my service.”

   “Had. I intend to resign my commission and retire from the army. Immediately.”

   His eyes widened. “Do nothing in haste, Coel. Your career…”

   “I care nothing for my career. I am sick of it all. The ar
my. The constant intrigues and betrayals. I want no more part of it.”

  
Belisarius tried to persuade me otherwise, to assure me of my continued worth to him, but I stood firm. The treachery of Ravenna had broken something inside me. To be promised so much, and then have it snatched away and revealed as mere illusion, a trick to fool barbarians, was more than my pride could bear.

  
“I would remind you,” he said when all his arguments were exhausted, “that a soldier of Rome is required to serve for a minimum of twenty-five years. You are nowhere near completing your term. The penalty for desertion is death.”

   I faced him calmly. “Then you will have to put me on trial, sir. I will not remain a moment longer in your service.
In any case, I am not a young man, and Rome has had the best of me.”

  
He was right, of course. I didn’t have the option of voluntary retirement, but counted on him feeling that he owed me something. I had spilled enough of my blood on his behalf, in North Africa and Sicily and Italy, and he would gain little from forcing me to stay on.

   “
Very well,” he said at last, “if you are determined on this course, I shall not hinder you. There will be no trial. But you will lose my friendship.”

   I said nothing, and I could see my silence wounded him.
He could count the number of officers whose loyalty to him was absolute on the fingers of one hand. Their number had just diminished.

19.

I waited until the fleet had departed for Constantinople, laden with prisoners and plunder from the long campaign, and then hired a small private ship to take me home.

   Me, and my son. Arthur had buried his mother in a private ceremony – I was invited, but had no wish to go – and was at a loss.
He owed allegiance to no-one, having merely posed as a Gothic officer, and had no wish to serve in the garrison Belisarius left behind to guard Ravenna.

  
I found him sitting on an upturned barrel on a jetty, watching the last of our ships depart. He had kept his armour and sword, and I felt such a pang as I looked at him. Elene was dead, but I could not forgive her for cheating me of him. Of all those lost years, when I might have loved and raised him as my own, like a normal father.

   “Come with me,” I said, “to
Constantinople. There is nothing to keep either of us here.”

  
A gentle breeze ruffled his hair as he gazed out to sea. “I have seen the imperial city,” he murmured, “from afar. Mother always refused to go back there.”

   “For goo
d reason. We can both prosper there. I have lost the favour of Belisarius, but do not lack for money.”

   This was true. My friend Procopius had looked after my interests during the campaign, and taken care to set aside my share of the plunder from all the cities and fortresses our army had sacked. Along with
my back pay, and the sale of the fine horse and armour Belisarius had presented me with at Fermo, I was, if not rich, at least comfortable.