Siege of Rome (22 page)

  
“That is twice you have come to my rescue,” said Constantine when he returned from his sally, “I owe you much, Coel. Be assured that someday I will repay the debt in full.”

   He was the same over-earnest, slightly unsettling c
haracter I had known in Sicily. His startling blue eyes gazed at me from a mask of blood and sweat with brazen intensity.

   “
I have told you before, there is no debt between us,” I said, disengaging my wrist with some difficulty from his clasp, “one of my men had the idea of using the statues. I have done no more than my duty to a fellow officer.”

   I may as well have remonstrated with the wall.
He enfolded me in a bone-crushing embrace, and I might have never escaped from it had the Gothic horns not renewed their dreadful song.

   “They are coming again!” he cried, pushing me away, “back to your post, Coel. We can hold them here
now.”

   I led my Heruls back towards the Salarian Gate, none too quickly, for I was exhausted from my vigours and relucta
nt to risk my skin a third time. God had so far kept me safe in the battle for Rome, but a man can only stretch his luck too far.

   The streets beyond the
Bridge of Hadrian were all but deserted, for the terrified citizens had taken refuge inside their homes from the fury of the Goths. I took the opportunity to lean against a wall and catch my breath.

   My Heruls stood around, waiting impatiently for me to recover. They were all young men, my juniors by
ten years or more. Only ingrained respect for a superior officer prevented them from running back to the sound of fighting, like hares outpacing a tired old hound.

   God, it seemed, intended to keep me busy that night. I had not rested for more than a few seconds when the sound of hoof beats clattering over the cobbles reached my ears, and Bessas thundered into sight, accompanied by a few troopers.

   “You!” he shouted, reining in at sight of me, “to the Praenestine Gate, at once! Every man is needed there!”

   He rode off without waiting
to see if I followed. The Praenestine Gate was at least a mile away, in the south-eastern quarter of the city, and was part of the region called the Vivarium, where the Romans had once housed the wild beasts they kept for public entertainments.

   Duty summoned me
for one last effort, and so I forced my aching legs into a trot. The Heruls jogged at my side, eager for more bloodshed. They were a savage and warlike people, as I had learned in their camp outside Constantinople, and their taste for violence and fighting knew no bounds.

   As we drew nearer to the Vivarium I overheard the thump and crash of artillery. The Goths were bombarding the gate and outer wall, which was lower than the inner and made of inferior quality stone, with their catapults and onagers.

   The bombardment abruptly ceased, replaced almost immediately by the clash of steel and the familiar sound of men fighting and dying. We turned a corner and almost ran into a column of our soldiers, advancing at the double towards the gates.

  
I paused to take stock and wipe the perspiration dripping from my brow. The Vivarium consisted of an enclosure between the higher inner wall and the outer bulwark, which the Goths were attempting to storm. Our men inside the enclosure had abandoned the bulwark and retreated a few paces, where they stood at bay to repel the tide of barbarian warriors pouring over the rampart.

   Bessas was
riding to and fro behind the lines, shouting at our infantry to form a shield-wall. Reinforcements were hurrying towards the fray from the various smaller gates inside the inner wall. Bessas roared them into battle, and the weight of their additional numbers stiffened our sagging line and shoved the Goths back, slaughtering many and driving the survivors back over the wall.

  
It was a temporary respite, and the sound of those hateful bull-horns gave warning that the enemy were reforming for another assault. I offered up a quick silent prayer and led my Heruls on to take our places in the rear ranks of the shield-wall Bessas was hurriedly assembling.

   “Fill those gaps, there!” he yelled, his voi
ce shrill and hoarse, “get the dead and wounded to the rear. Take a mouthful of water and pass your pottles around to those who have none. Move faster, you dogs!”  

  
I thought it a vain effort to try and defend the outer bulwark. The wall was too low, and our numbers too few to hold it indefinitely against wave after wave of Goths. I looked around at our men, and saw only grey faces, drawn with effort and exhaustion.

  
There was another who agreed with me. Hoofs clattered behind me, and I looked around to see Belisarius cantering through a gate inside the inner wall, followed by a group of his officers.

  
The general had come straight from the battle at the Salarian Gate. He looked no less tired than anyone else, his helmet and breastplate dinted and smeared with blood, his face gaunt, heavy jaw clenched against fatigue.

   He summone
d Bessas to his side. The two spoke urgently, their voices too low to hear above the din of horns and war-shouts. When they were done, Belisarius wheeled his horse and disappeared through the gate, while Bessas gestured at his trumpeters.

   “Withdraw!” he screamed once the shrill blast of the trumpets had died away, “abandon the wall, and form line here!”

   He pointed at the foot of the inner wall. Our men shuffled backwards to reform in front of him. The manoeuvre caught me by surprise, and I was almost knocked over and trampled under the front ranks, but two of my Heruls pulled me clear. I thought I overhear one of them grumble something about looking after the old man, and shot him a venomous look.

  
“Throw down your javelins,” Bessas ordered, “swords and shields only.”

   The men of the front rank did so, casting aside all their spears and javelins and drawing their swords for close combat. I stood in the third line, with Bessas just behind me, and kissed the blade of Caledfwlch for luck.
There were no walls to hide behind here, no supply of statues to rain down on the enemy. We would meet the enemy to their beards and make a final stand, here, where the defences of Rome were at their weakest.

   “I promised you hard serv
ice, Briton,” grunted Bessas, “see you make the shades of your ancestors proud. I wager your grandsire never took a backward step.”

   I was flattered he even remembered who my grandsire was, and tried to will away the cramp stealing across my limbs.
I could feel my strength ebbing, just when I needed it most.

   We waited for what seemed an
agonisingly long time. The Goths were taunting us, letting fear and doubt gnaw at our minds while they gathered their superior numbers for the final charge.

   “Come on, you bastards,” I heard a Hunnish spearman mutter in front of me, “
let’s have it over with.”

  
I was taller than most of the Easterners that made up our infantry, and able to peer over their heads at the Gothic banners outside the bulwark. One of them was huge, a great square crimson standard fringed with gold, and with a shock I realised it was the banner of their king. Vitiges himself was present outside the Praenestine Gate. I tried to picture him, and shuddered at the image my mind conjured up of a gigantic bearded savage, red to the armpits in Roman blood and wielding a battle-axe bigger than my head.

   W
ith a final blast of horns and a mighty shout that split the night skies, they came. Their forward line of warriors leaped over the bulwark and galloped towards our line, roaring like enraged lions. Hundreds more flooded in their wake. Against this multitude our flimsy treble line of swords and shields seemed certain to break, smashed to bits and swept away, leaving Rome open to the vengeance of the Goths.

  
They hit us like a steel fist into an exposed gut. The big Hun standing in front of me was shoved backwards, and the back of his helm smashed into my face, breaking my nose. Tears started to my eyes. I staggered, blinded and whimpering in pain, and gasped as my spine thumped against the brickwork of the inner wall. 

  
The Hun’s crushing weight pressed against me, and for a few terrible seconds I struggled to breathe. His rank stench was in my throat and nostrils – many of our Hunnish mercenaries refused to wash, thinking that bathing sapped their strength – and I flailed my arms uselessly, almost losing my grip on Caledfwlch. The triumphant yells of the Goths churned in my ears, deafening me. I was blind, robbed of my senses, crushed and defenceless, and about to die.

  
The infernal howling of the Goths was drowned by a pure, rising note, like the clarion call of angels. Some of the awful pressure on my body eased, and I was able to push the Hun away. He was a dead weight, his neck chopped almost clean in two by an axe. “Let’s have it done and over with,” he had begged, and God granted him his wish.

  
The triumphant Gothic yells had turned to cries of fear and panic. Roman trumpets were sounding all over the field beyond the outer wall. Through a mist of pain I glimpsed the banners of Belisarius, illuminated in the fires lit by the Goths to aid their advance. 

  
I was already weeping, my tears mingling with the blood trickling from the ruin of my nose, but now I wept with joy and relief as well as pain.

   Belisarius had ordered Bessas to abandon the bulwark and retreat to the inner wall of the Vivarium, tempting the Goths to launch an all-out assault. Packed inside that narrow enclosure, they were taken unawares when Belisarius
led his cavalry out of the neighbouring gates and fell upon them, flank and rear.

   Hemmed in against our infantry, scarcely able to turn or even lift their weapons, the Go
ths were butchered like sheep. Unknown to me, Belisarius had also ordered his men to fire the Gothic artillery, so the scene of his victory was lit by the hellish glow of burning war-machines.

   Bessas led a counter-attack, and ordered the archers and javelin-men on the walls above us to hurl their missiles into the hapless ranks of the enemy.
Our infantry surged forward with renewed vigour, and I had space and leisure to collapse to my knees and throw up.

  
Fortunately, Bessas was otherwise engaged, otherwise he might have witnessed me behaving in a manner that my warlike grandsire would certainly have disapproved of. After the spasms had passed, I wiped my mouth and remained on all fours, debating whether to feign death until the fighting was over. I had seen my limit of hard service, as Bessas might have termed it, and longed for rest and safety.

   What of my men?
I had not seen them since the Goths attacked. The force of responsibility overwhelmed my selfish cowardice, and I climbed wearily to my feet, Caledfwlch weighing like lead in my hand.

  
The enclosure was emptying now. Those Goths still alive had broken past our cavalry and were fleeing in all directions across the field, leaving great piles of their slain. Our men pursued them, or else wandered among the reeking carnage, finishing off the wounded and bending to inspect the dead for valuables. Gothic warriors, particularly the high-ranking ones, loved to decorate their bodies with gold, so there were rich pickings to be had.

  
My Heruls were nowhere to be seen. I imagined they were happily chasing Goths on the plain, but still felt duty-bound to go in search of them. Sighing, I started to limp towards the outer wall, when a hand fell lightly on my shoulder.

   “Coel,” said Belisarius, “I seem to remember we met in similar circumstances, inside the Hippodrome after the Nika riots. Do you remember?”

   I turned, slowly, and dropped to one knee. “I remember, sir,” I replied, bowing my head.

   In truth, it was impossible to forget that ghastly, blood-soaked night when
Belisarius’ Veterans and Huns had made chopped liver of the Nika rioters, most of whom were civilians. I had played my part in the butchery, and when the sun finally rose over the arena, piled high with the bodies of Roman citizens, Belisarius had congratulated me and taken my oath as a soldier.

  
He placed his index finger under my chin and tilted my face up. I had rarely seen a man look so tired, but his mouth twitched into a smile as he studied me. 

   “Your nose,” he said, “resembles a burst fruit. Now you have the prop
er appearance of a Roman officer.”

   He helped me to stand. “
Come. My aides will take you to my quarters. You have done more than enough for one night. And keep that sword safe!”

   I allowed two of his junior officers to lead me away. Purple clouds drifted before my eyes, and I could feel my legs giving way under me. I was a man of straw, buckling in the wind, and blood flowed freely from my shoulder like a torrent of wine.

   Blood. Oceans of blood. It all seemed to leav
e my body at once, and I toppled forward into blissful nothing.

17.

“Hello, Coel,” said Antonina.