Siege of Rome (24 page)

   “My men
,” Belisarius corrected him, “and even if the figure of thirty thousand is accurate, that still leaves us with a hundred and twenty thousand Goths to contend with. Their Frankish allies and auxiliaries from Dalmatia will soon arrive to make good their losses.”

   He spread his hands
. “I have written to the Emperor in Constantinople, begging him for reinforcements. So far I have received nothing in reply. Until fresh troops arrive, assuming they ever do, I cannot afford to risk the few I have in an uncertain and unnecessary battle.”

   “That is my reply,” he said firmly when they made to protest, “tell the Senate. Good day, gentlemen.”

  
The senators didn’t like it, but there was nothing they could do, and Belisarius refused to brook any further argument. They bowed, their eyes glittering with malice, and waddled out of the room, muttering darkly to each other.

  
Belisarius puffed out his cheeks and slumped in his chair. Bessas spotted us, and leaned down to whisper in his ear.

   He sud
denly came to life again. His eyes widened as they drank in Antonina, who was already advancing towards him. She swayed slightly as she walked, and I was hard-put not to fasten my eyes on that slender, elegant frame, carved and shaped by nature to entrap men and bend them to her will. She was always a greater natural beauty than her friend Theodora, whose physical charms coarsened with age, and had to be sustained and to some extent replaced by cosmetics.

  
It worried me to see the light in Belisarius’ eyes, which shone for no-one on earth save his wife. He was Antonina’s slave, and guided by her in most things save the waging of war. His generals would have lost all respect for him if they thought his strategy was being dictated by his wife, and she was careful never to intervene.

  
I had rarely observed the couple at such close quarters. It struck me how she wouldn’t let him get too near, warding off his embrace and kissing him chastely on the cheek.

   “Coel,” he said, noticing me for the first time, “back on your feet, I see. My wife has taken good care of you, then?”

   “The best, sir,” I replied, swallowing the bile that rose in my throat, “my shoulder is on the mend at last.”

   “Shame about your face, though,” he said with a grin. I had forgotten my broken nose, and carefully raised my hand to touch it. The damned thing had set awkwardly. Later, when I had leisure to peer at my reflection in a mirror made of polished metal, I found that
my face, never my most attractive feature, now resembled that of an African ape.

   “We overheard your conversation with the senators, husband,” said Antonina, “it seems they have found their courage at last.”

   “Fools,” he growled, “they want me to arm the citizens and lead them out to face the Goths in the open. Our recent successes have convinced them that Vitiges will take one look at their swords and run away.”

   “If the Romans want to fight, let them,” said Bessas, “but without our aid. This city would be a lot easie
r to defend without the inhabitants whining and snapping at us.”

   “
Rome emptied of Romans,” said Belisarius, rubbing his chin, “an attractive thought, though it would render our mission rather pointless.”

   He turned back to me. “
Forgive me, Coel. We are neglecting you. Has my wife informed you of your promotion?”

   “The Lady Antonia was good enough to do so, sir,” I said woodenly, deliberately avoiding Antonina’s eye. I knew she was smirking, and longed to do or say something to wipe out her insufferable complacency, “though I hardly think I deserve such an honour. You made me a decanus, and I lost my entire command.”

   “That was none of your fault,” said Belisarius, “we lost over six hundred men at the Praenestine Gate. Many officers and men died. Your conduct, however, was exemplary. You fought at the Salarian Gate, in the defence of Hadrian’s mausoleum, and at the Praenestine Gate. Constantine assures me that the Goths would have taken the mausoleum, if you had not thought to use the statuary to repel them.”

   Using the statues as missiles had in fact been Ubaz’s idea, but he was no longer alive to claim the credit.
I glanced at Constantine. At first I thought my unlooked-for promotion was mainly thanks to him, but then I received praise from an unexpected quarter.

   “I saw Coel stand
his ground in the last fight,” said Bessas, his craggy face twisted into something like a smile, “even though he was exhausted and nigh-dead on his feet. I have no hesitation in approving his promotion.”

   I only stood my ground because I was pinned to the wall by a dead Hun, but it seemed impolitic to say so.
God had seen fit to smile on me, which made a pleasant change from what he usually dropped on my head, and so I ate up the honey while it lasted.

18.

The siege wore on into spring. Neither side wished to risk another engagement. We could not afford the casualties, and Vitiges’ already dented prestige might not have survived another defeat. The Goths only respect strength in their kings, and expect them to provide victory after victory in the field. To be repeatedly defeated by a handful of inbred Romans and ill-disciplined Eastern mercenaries, as they perceived us, was an intolerable humiliation.

  
Vitiges settled down to break our resistance through famine and blockade. He failed, however, to cut off the lines of communication between Rome and the Campanian coast, and in the latter days of April wonderful news arrived: a Roman fleet had arrived at last from Constantinople, carrying a squadron of Hunnish and Sclavonian cavalry.

   The troops had embarked at the end of the previous year, but storms had delayed the fleet’s departure and forced it to winter in
Greece. They landed on the northern bank of the mouth of the Tiber, guarded by a fortress called the Port of Rome. The fort, along with the fortified town of Ostia on the southern bank, had once guarded the sea-passage into Rome, but the Goths had seized both. Even so, our reinforcements were able to get past the defences and ride along the ancient stone highway, eighteen miles in length, to the gates of the city.

   Our elation was short-lived. “Is that all?” exclaimed Procopius as we watched the riders enter the Salarian Gate, “
a few hundred light cavalry? There must be more!”

   There were sixteen hundred in total, mostly horse-archers. They were a useful addition to our depleted garrison, but the sense of disappointment was palpable.
Whether through envy or neglect or sheer poverty of resources, the Emperor had responded to Belisarius’ begging letters by sending a bare minimum of aid.

   Procopius, never Justinian’s greatest admirer, was beside himself with rage. “
He wants Belisarius to fail,” he snarled, “the flatterers and traitors at court have poured so many lies into him, he can scarcely tell truth from falsehood any more. That evil whore of a wife has corrupted him with every form of degenerate vice. I tell you, Coel, Justinian is not fit to be called Caesar. He is not fit for anything save emptying the dung-pits of his slaves!”

   I clapped my hand over his mouth. We were standing in the street just inside the gate, where anyone might hear us, and Procopius had just uttered enough treason to condemn him several times over.

   “For God’s sake, mind your tongue,” I whispered, “if Belisarius overheard half of that, he would have no choice but to place you on trial. Do you want to hang?”

   “Belisarius would not lay a finger on me,” he sneered, pushing me away, “I know too much, and am far too valuable to him. Besides, I am sure he shares my opinion of our beloved ruler.”

   “Has he actually said as much?”

  
“Not as such, but I know him, Coel. I have been his private secretary for many years, and I can read his thoughts. It wouldn’t take much for…”

   His voice trailed away, thank the Lord. Even he baulked at voicing the unspeakable, though I had
occasionally heard our men talking of it in low voices when in their cups.

   Why were they fighting against desperate odds in the service of a distant
Emperor who sent them little help, and who appeared not to care if his soldiers lived or died? Who was their real leader, the man who fought and suffered alongside them, who had led them to one improbable victory after another?

  
Belisarius, of course. Why could the soldiers not raise a general to the purple, instead of Justinian? It had happened before, many times, during the turbulent years when the Roman Empire tore itself apart. Unlike Justinian, who sat idle in Constantinople and lived in luxury while his people suffered, Belisarius was the very image of a soldier-emperor, in the mould of Hadrian and Trajan and Marcus Aurelius.

   My history was patchy, but I seemed to recall that very few emperors whose authority relied on the army lasted very long.
Being a learned historian, Procopius was well aware of this, but even he was starting to indulge treasonous thoughts. They would curdle over the years, until his brilliant mind became tragically unhinged, and he wrote a series of disgraceful secret histories damning Justinian and his court in the most lurid and ridiculous terms. The histories were hidden, for once published his life would have been forfeit. I read a few fragments, and am very thankful they remain locked away in some obscure vault. May they never, God willing, see the light of day.

   Enraged at the ease with which our reinforcements had slipped past his outposts, Vitiges
tightened his grip on Rome. His fleet blockaded the seas, and he made great efforts to cut off all contact between the city and our garrisons in the south. To that end he seized two ruined aqueducts which lay seven miles from Rome, the arches of which covered a substantial part of the country. His workmen turned these ruins into a makeshift fortress, blocking up the gaps with stone and clay, and inside it he placed a garrison of seven thousand men.

   We w
ere now surrounded on all sides. With every day that passed, our supplies were reduced, and fresh Gothic reinforcements were seen on the horizon. As Belisarius had predicted, his Frankish allies had sent thousands of auxiliaries to aid Vitiges, and more troops were pouring in from Dalmatia and other Gothic provinces.

   The atmosphere inside the city grew desperate. Even
Belisarius’ ingenious water-mills could not replenish our dwindling supplies of grain, and he was forced to halve the bread ration doled out to the citizens. Any civilization is only a few meals away from collapse, and the people of Rome were already demoralised by the long months of siege and Belisarius’ refusal to let them fight.

   In their extremity, the Romans started to forget Christ and revert to their ancient gods and pagan idolatries. I watched in disbelief as people sought comfort from a particularly shameless breed of charlatan known as soothsayers, who claimed to be able to read the future in mystic omens
and the spilled guts of animals.

   “It’s all harmless enough,” Procopius assur
ed me as we walked the streets together one afternoon, “let them believe in their omens and auguries. Such heathen antics are to be deplored, of course, but anything that keeps the mob quiet must also be tolerated.”

   I was off-duty, and
inclined to spend most of my few leisure hours in his company. His lively conversation made a welcome change from attempting to communicate with the men of my new command, a hundred rough Isaurian spearmen from the wildest and most lawless regions of their native mountains. Belisarius had seen fit to put me in charge of a detachment of infantry, either because he didn’t trust me with cavalry, or because there was nothing else available. I preferred to believe the latter.

   We were walking near the Forum, the large rectangular plaza in the centre of
Rome, surrounded by various splendid temples and government buildings. There were a number of soothsayers at large, emaciated men and women in patched robes, loudly proclaiming their nonsense while groups of wide-eyed, half-starved citizens looked on in fear and wonder, devouring every word.

   I stopped to observe a particularly large crowd gathered in front of one of the temples.
It was a small, square monument to Janus, the two-faced god who looks to the future and the past, with ornate decorations on the roof, a latticed window and double doors made of rusted iron to front and rear. A garland of twisted rope hung over the doors at the front.

   “The doors to the
Temple of Janus have been closed for centuries,” said Procopius, “it used to be the custom that they would stand open in times of war, and were closed in times of peace. Rome was usually at war with someone, so they more or less always stood open.”

  
Some demagogue was standing on an upturned barrel beside the doorway, screaming at the crowd to break the garland and smash the doors open.

   “The fortunes of war have turned against us!” he bawled, spraying
the mob with spittle, “and why, has this happened? Because we turned away from the old gods, who once watched over Rome during the high days of the Caesars, when our great city was the centre and heartbeat of the world!”