Flame of the West (2 page)

   “But they
are
Romans,” I protested, “this is the heartland of the old Western Empire. Surely they regard our arrival as a deliverance?”

   This was a point I had never fully grasped, and Procopius smiled thinly as he explained it to me.

   “The Romans have done very well under the rule of the Gothic kings,” he said, “far better than under the latter-day Caesars. Between you and me, Coel, the later Western Emperors were a pack of idiots. They threw away their empire with both hands. Rome, and Italy, have prospered since Alaric deposed the last Emperor and sent his regalia to Constantinople.”

   I glanced nervously at the line of horsemen behind us. At least a quarter of them were native troops, volunteers who had flocked to our banner.

   “It is a hard thing, to submit to foreign conquest,” I said, “even if the rule of the conquerors is beneficial.”

   I was thinking of
Britain, the homeland I had not seen since childhood, and wondering who held dominion over her now.

  
After my grandsire’s death, the land had collapsed into a patchwork of petty feuding kings and chieftains, like so many cockerels fighting over a dungheap. Perhaps another strong man had emerged from the chaos, to seize power for a time. Or perhaps the invading Saxons and their foul kin had overwhelmed the fragmented British kingdoms and made the land their own. Whatever the state of affairs, I had little doubt the mass of the people lived in abject misery, taxed and herded into battle by their native rulers, slaughtered and enslaved by the invaders.

   Sometimes I entertained impossible dreams of returning to
Britain at the head of an army and rescuing my country. Restoring good government and order, expelling the barbarians, and uniting the land under a High King. I even pictured myself seated on the throne, robed in purple and cloth of gold like Justinian, Caledfwlch gleaming at my hip, and all the proud lords of Britain kneeling before me.

   Fond dreams, for an ageing ex-charioteer and thoroughly me
diocre junior officer in the Roman army. I was unlikely to see Britain again, or live much longer. Somehow, through various twists of fate, I had contrived to offend powerful and dangerous people, including the Empress Theodora, her friend Antonina, and the scheming eunuch Narses. It was only thanks to the protection of Belisarius, who smuggled me out of Constantinople before the net could close, that I still breathed.

   Even in
Italy, far from the imperial court, my enemies struck at me. Antonina, as was her habit, had accompanied her husband Belisarius on the campaign, and brought along her vile son Photius. Photius had tried to kill me at least once, during the Battle of Membresa. I survived that, and another assassination attempt outside Naples, and lived in fear and expectation of more.

   “I must leave,” I said suddenly, blurting out my thought
s, “I must quit the empire. It is my only chance of survival.”

  
Procopius nodded slowly. “I am inclined to agree with you. I have never known a man with a such a talent for making enemies. I think your escape can be arranged, but not now. After this campaign is over, perhaps. Belisarius will not let you go just yet. He needs you.”

   It seemed absurd, the idea that Belisarius was so reliant on one lo
wly officer, but I had the virtue of being loyal. The common soldiers loved their general, who had led them to one victory after another, but his captains were a treacherous, backstabbing crew, jealous of his success and always looking to criticise his decisions.

   “He may yet promote you to centenar,” said Procopius
with a dry chuckle, “or even higher, depending how desperate he gets.”

  
Soon the walls of Naples became visible, a shimmering white line on the horizon to the west. Procopius was distracted by the glint of spears to the north.

   “Gothic scouts, possibly,”
he muttered, “let’s get a closer look at them.”

   We rode
north until more horsemen came in view. Two columns arranged in double file, advancing at the trot in the direction of Naples.

   I did a swift head-count. “Two hun
dred,” I said, “they fly Roman banners. Someone else has been at work, stripping the local garrisons of men.”

  
Procopius was piqued, for he regarded the task of collecting reinforcements as his alone. He thought John the Sanguinary was responsible, and cursed the young nobleman for the upstart son of a traitor all the way back to Naples.

   We arrived to find the city in ferment, and one name rippling through the crowded streets:

  
Antonina!

  
The mere sound of it filled me with dismay. Belisarius had smuggled Antonina out of Rome, away from danger, and sent her south with a strong guard to await the outcome of the war in the peaceful tranquillity of Naples. 

   He little knew his wife. Antonina had taken up residence in the governor’s palace, from where she immediately despatched agents to gather men from the surrounding province. To do her credit, she had no intention of wallowing in comfort while her husband fought to defend
Rome, and did her utmost to send him military aid.

   I
was reluctant to let Antonina know my presence in Naples, but misjudged my own importance: she was already embroiled in fresh plots and intrigues, and betraying her husband on a nightly basis with one Theodosius, a staggeringly handsome young man and Belisarius’ godson. I was no longer of relevance to her, though continued to live in fear of receiving an assassin’s blade in my back one dark night.

  
When over five hundred men had been gathered, it was agreed that our cavalry should advance north towards Rome along the Appian Way, escorting the train of wagons, loaded with corn and wine, for the relief of the city.

  
Meanwhile our fleet, carrying three thousand Isaurian infantry, would sail for the port of Ostia. This was the plan devised by John the Sanguinary, and none cared to contradict it.

   “If all goes to pot,” Procopius remarked sourly
, “then at least we shall witness a swift end to the career of a most unpleasant young man.”

   Pro
copius was vindictive, and judged people on instinct. I could never fathom, for instance, why he took such a liking to me.

   I shared
some of his dislike of John, who struck me as arrogant, but he was the most senior officer present in Naples. His pretty ways and noble birth appealed to Antonina, who had no hesitation in naming him our commander.

   I joined the cavalry, placing myself among the Heruls,
and our little expeditionary force set out north.

   To
Rome.

3.

We followed the Appian
Way, the ancient paved highway linking Rome to southeast Italy. I fully expected us to be attacked, and to have to fight our way to Rome over mountains of Gothic corpses, but our progress was unhindered.

   “Vitiges is looking north,” Procopius said confidently, “all his attention is fixed on
Rome. He pays no heed to what is happening behind him. Fool! Belisarius is lucky in his enemies. Not one of the barbarian kings he has faced is his equal in war.”

   This was true
, though Vitiges, King of the Goths, enjoyed a reputation as an able and ferocious soldier. I had never even seen him, though he was said to be a typical chieftain of his race, tall and auburn-haired and dripping with gold ornaments.

   John the Sanguinary was
less of a toy soldier than he appeared. He was careful to despatch scouts, to look for any sign of the Goths. They returned at a hard gallop when we were some five miles south of Rome.

   “General Belisarius has sallied out fro
m the Pincian Gate,” one reported breathlessly, “almost his entire garrison is engaged with the Gothic host, in pitched battle on the plain before the city.”

   John’s carefully plucked eyebrows shot up. “Not as cautious as you thought, eh?” I remarked, and ret
urned his frown with a grin. In days of old I might have been flogged for insolence to a superior officer, but the legendary discipline of the Roman army was much decayed.

    “It is a distraction,” said Procopius, “Belisarius must have learned of our arrival, and has engaged the Goths to give us time to reach
Ostia and meet up with the fleet. When he learns we have safely passed through the enemy lines, he will withdraw back inside the city.”

  
John hesitated. The city lay to the north-east, and we were following the section of highway that led straight to the port of Ostia. Just visible to the north was the section of ruined aqueduct that Vitiges had partially repaired and turned into a fortress, guarding the approach to Rome.

  
“You,” said John, stabbing a finger at me, “remind me of your name.”

   “Coel ap Amhar ap Arthur,” I replied promptly.

   “Ah, yes. The general’s tame Briton. I have heard something of you. Brave and loyal, they say. Let us test those qualities. I want you to take five hundred men – the ones we levied in Campania will do – and ride north-east to assist Belisarius. The rest of our force will continue north and press on towards Ostia.”

   I stared at him,
regretting my insolence of a moment earlier. “But, sir,” I protested, “I am a mere infantry officer, and have never commanded more than ten men in the field.”

   He smiled lazily at me. “Then here is an unrivalled opportunity to prove your worth. You ride rather well for an infantryman. Let us see how you lead.”

   John was the commander, and there was no gainsaying his orders. I turned away, trying to ignore the jealous stares of the more senior captains who should have been sent in my stead.

   Procopius touched my shoulder. “He thinks you will fail,” he whispered, “but I have every confidence in your ability. Do well, and you may receive your promotion sooner than we thought.”

   My orders were to lead my new command north, straight through the heart of the Gothic camp, and do as much damage to the enemy as possible before withdrawing. I was fairly certain John didn’t care about our fate – I was a mere Briton, a barbarian from the distant north, and my men were the scrapings of local garrisons – but wanted to ensure he got his two thousand cavalry to Ostia.

   Feeling giddy,
I put myself at the head of the levies and glanced up at their banner
,
flapping limply in the slight wind. It displayed the double-headed Roman eagle, worked in golden thread against a red field.

   I had followed the eagle in a series of bloody campaigns
, from North Africa to Sicily to Italy. For much of that time I had fought as a common soldier, free of the burden of rank and responsibility. My one stint as an officer, in charge of a handful of Heruls and Isaurians, had been mercifully brief. Arthur’s blood ran in my veins, but not his natural talent for leadership.

  
Now John the Sanguinary had put me in charge of five hundred cavalry. My guts rumbled in panic as I trotted to the head of my new command. Swallowing, I raised my arm and nodded at the trumpeter to give the signal to advance.

  
I led them on at the canter, skirting the ruins of the aqueduct and aiming for some open, flat ground with a large timber stockade to the north-west. If the Goths should suddenly spring on us, at least we would have room to manoeuvre.

   Tattered Gothic banners displaying their crude symbols of the horse and the bull flapped from the walls of the stockade, and the upper levels of the aqueduct-fortress.

   I glimpsed a few helmeted heads, and expected the timber gates of the stockade to yawn open at any moment, disgorging thousands of screaming Gothic cavalry. They are fine horsemen, though they have no mounted bowmen as good as our Huns and Heruls, and enjoyed a massive advantage in numbers. Over a hundred and fifty thousand Goths were encamped around the walls of Rome, an entire nation in arms.

   Nothing happened.
The sentries ducked out of sight, and we thundered on past endless rows of empty tents and doused cooking fires.

   It was unnerving. The whole of that vast encampment, spread out on the fields south of
Rome, was emptied of troops. It was not deserted: we rode past tents full of sick and wounded men, and somewhere a war-horn sounded the alarm, but there weren’t enough soldiers left to oppose us. We might have plundered the baggage wagons and set the rest of the camp on fire, but I was no freebooter, and stuck to my orders.

   The sound of a gathering storm lured us north, towards the walls of
Rome. As we drew closer, the sounds became more distinct; the rumble of hoofs, the shrieks of terrified horses and dying men, the scrape and clash of weapons - war-cries, screams, conflicting orders, war-horns sounding advance and retreat, the zip of arrows and barrage of drums. All the noise and chaos and terror of battle. It was a familiar, heady, intoxicating din, both terrifying and appealing, quickening a man’s blood at the same time as driving him almost mad with fear.

  
I halted on a little rise overlooking the battlefield, drinking in the sight and sound of slaughter.