Siege of Rome (28 page)

  
I stood silent, waiting patiently for an explanation. Unless he had run mad, presumably he did not mean to send myself and Antonina off together.

  
Belisarius turned back to the latticed window. “Look at that,” he murmured, indicating the Gothic fires, “they are inexhaustible. No matter how many of the barbarians we kill, fresh men spring up from the earth to replace them. All the while our numbers dwindle, and our supplies run low. Did you know the citizens have started to eat grass, Coel?”

   The question startled me. “I had heard something, sir,” I replied unsteadily, “but witnessed nothing of the sort.”

   “It is true,” he said, nodding sadly, “the poor are reduced to eating herbs and grasses, and eating the flesh of mules. The meat is tainted, since the animals died of disease, and now a pestilence is sweeping through the poor quarters of Rome. I have ordered fresh corn to be distributed, but there isn’t enough to feed all. My physicians do what they can, but nothing can stop the sickness from spreading.”

   H
e ran his hands down his bearded cheeks. “God forgive us. What misery and destruction we have brought to this city. All for some vain, foolish dream of restoring the glory of the Western Empire. Glory! What glory? We have brought nothing but death. No, do not absolve your guilt by blaming mere soldiers, who must follow orders and do their duty. I, Belisarius, have brought nothing but death. Yet I must perform my own duty, and see the game through to the end.”

  
I had never heard Belisarius speak his heart so honestly. He seemed to have forgotten our presence, and looked up with a start when Procopius gave a discreet little cough.

   “
Coel,” said Belisarius, “our poor, persecuted Briton. You must have often cursed the day your mother fled your homeland and came halfway across the world to find refuge in Constantinople. Some refuge. It is a miracle you are still alive, but I must ask you to perform another duty. You will leave Rome, tonight, in the company of Procopius, and make your way through the Gothic lines. Once you reach Naples, you will send out orders for our garrisons scattered about Campania to send part of their men to muster at the city.”

   “We must have reinforcements,” he said, leaning forwar
d to stare intently at me, “if the Emperor sends none, then I have no choice but to weaken our garrisons elsewhere. You will handle the military aspect of the mission. Procopius is tasked with devising some way of getting provisions into the city from the south. Our stores of corn will soon be expended. Without fresh supplies, the Romans may soon revert to even older practices than the worship of pagan gods, and start eating each other.”

   The quest
was a daunting one, with much risk involved, but at least the shadow of execution had lifted. Whether Belisarius wanted me out of the city just to perform a useful service, or because my presence was an embarrassment to him, I could not be certain. Whatever his motives, I was grateful to go.  

  
I had one question. “What of Photius, sir? Is he to accompany his mother to Naples?”

   Belisarius gazed at me for a full minute before replying. “No. He stays here.”

   Where I can keep my eye on him, he might have added, but I didn’t press the issue. Antonina’s scheming son would remain stranded in Rome, where I sincerely hoped he might catch a Gothic arrow in his throat before too much longer. Meanwhile I was being given an opportunity to escape well beyond his reach.

  
Procopius and I, along with six Huns as an escort, left the city soon after midnight via the gate of Saint Paul. This gate was located at the beginning of the road that connected Rome to Ostia, the fortified coastal town that the Goths had seized shortly after the beginning of the siege.

   It was a black, moonless night, and we departed like thieves, clad in dark cloaks and mantles and with mufflers wrapped around our horses’ hoofs.

   At first we led the beasts on foot, wishing to spare them in case we needed to escape pursuit later. The lights of the Gothic camp were at their fewest here, since they already held Ostia and there was no possible escape for us in that direction.

  
Besides the Huns, Belisarius had also given us a scout, a native of Rome, to guide our way. We had no lanterns, for that would have alerted the Gothic pickets, but our guide seemed able to find his way in the dark.

   I recall he somewhat resembled a sniffer hound, being short and bow-legged, and with a raddled, jowly, somewhat collapsed face.
He said little, and responded to Procopius’s frantically whispered questions with curt grunts.

   Procopius
was understandably frightened, even though he had some experience in this kind of secret work. The Goths and their allies were all around us, and it seemed an impossible task to pick a safe path through their teeming lines.

  
The guide led us half a mile beyond the gate, and then abruptly swung south, straight towards the fortified Gothic camp established to keep watch over the Appian Way. Beyond the camp lay the dark mass of the broken aqueducts that Vitiges had ordered repaired and filled with soldiers.

   “Be ready to ride
,” was all the guide would say. Procopius gave up trying to get anything more out of him, and the eight of us followed in silence.

   The walls of
Rome were to our right, illuminated by the glow of torches and braziers on the walls. I wondered if the more sharp-eyed of our sentries might see us, and prayed fervently they wouldn’t call out a challenge or raise the alarm, thinking we were a band of Goths trying to sneak into the city.

  
At any moment I dreaded encountering some of the mounted scouts that scoured the countryside around Rome. It was unlikely that any would be abroad at such an hour, but my fears multiplied as we plodded over the flat, open ground west of Rome. The darkness was our friend, but still I perspired freely, imagining a sudden shower of arrows and javelins, followed by hordes of Gothic pony-soldiers.

  
Incredibly, our little Italian guide led us safely through the enemy outposts. He knew the lay of the land intimately, and led us on clever detours, using whatever scraps of cover were available and steering clear of the scattered watch-fires.

   I like to think we moved swiftly and silently, like ghosts, and we did make all speed, but were also aided by the Gothic habit of drinking themselves into
a stupor. Confident after their recent victory, convinced that the Romans would not dare attempt another sally, their rough discipline had almost fallen away completely. We crept past groups of bearded soldiers singing in loud, drunken voices and downing cup after cup of their glutinous ale, when they should have been keeping watch.

   We passed almost directly under the timber stockade of their camp. The sentries must have been blind, or every bit as drunk as
their comrades, and we crept past unchallenged.

   “The barbarians have grown complacent,” whispered Procopius, “Belisarius might ride out now, and slaughter them as they lie swine-drunk beside their fires.”

   Then we came to the aqueducts. The Goths had walled up the lower arches where they met, between the Latin and Appian Ways, and stationed the majority of their garrison there. Our guide took us west, until our feet were treading the smooth, ancient flagstones of the Appian Way. In their arrogance the Goths had thought to place few pickets here, so far from Rome and deep inside their own lines.

   Only once did we encounter danger.
A single watch-fire burned under the crumbling ruins of an arch at the extreme western end of one of the aqueducts, warming the bones of a trio of Gothic spearmen.

   They were huddled up miserably against the cold, and seemed indifferent to anything except staying close to the guttering
fire. We tried to pass by too quickly, and one of them tipped up his helmet and called out a challenge.

  
Procopius had studied the Gothic tongue, and barked a response. The Goth didn’t seem satisfied. He rose to a sitting position, peering at us suspiciously as he clutched his spear.

   “Mount,” hissed our guide. I already had one leg hooked over the saddle, and within seconds we were forcing our horses into a gallop along the highway. We kept
them at a fast pace until the rugged silhouette of the aqueducts were a distant line on the horizon. There was no pursuit: either the sentry failed to raise the alarm, or his superiors failed to heed him.

   
Naples was almost two days’ ride away. We covered a portion of the distance that night, and rested at dawn, sinking to sleep inside a little grove just as the sun broke cover in the east.

   We were inside the borders of
Campania, and practically clear of danger, for the Goths had concentrated their forces around Rome and in the north of Italy. Thanks to the earlier conquests of Belisarius, Campania was imperial territory, and would remain so unless Rome fell and Vitiges could push his armies south.

    Dusk of the second days’ ride brought us within sight of the walls of
Naples again, and the blue sparking waters of the bay.

   Procopius was the first to spur his horse onto a ridge overlooking the city. He reined in and shaded his eyes, looking out to sea, and gave an excited yelp.

   “Coel!” he shouted, beckoning at me. I rode up to join him, and looked down at the glorious spread of the city, white walls shining in the late afternoon sun, and the broad waters of the ocean beyond.

   The sea was full of ships, bobbing at anchor in the bay.
Transports, galleys and dromons, all with imperial flags fluttering from their mast-heads.

   Every ship was packed with soldiers. The Empero
r had not forgotten us after all, and sent thousands of troops to our aid.

END.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The purpose of Belisarius’ first Italian campaign was to destroy the Ostrogothic kingdom and restore Italy to the Roman Empire. It lasted five years, a considerable length of time, which was why I decided to cut Coel’s retelling of the campaign in half. The third and final installment of his memoirs will cover the second part of the war, and the final parting of ways between Coel and the famous Roman general.

Students of Roman history will notice that Coel’s narrative telescopes and in some cases distorts events: for instance, the trial and unjust execution of Constantine in reality took place some time after the events described, and in different circumstances. For this and any other mistakes I can only beg the reader’s indulgence, and ask them not to judge too harshly the somewhat distorted memories of an old soldier.