Flame of the West (11 page)

   The letter bore the imperial seal, and there could be no doubt as to its authenticity.
I was surprised and encouraged by it – evidently the Emperor still retained some faith in his general – and looked eagerly at Narses. There was no denying an imperial mandate, and it would be a pleasure to witness a hole bored in the eunuch’s insufferable complacency.

   I should have known better. The subtle mind of Narses had been honed in the deadly intrigues of the imperial court. It took him mere seconds to pick a flaw in the mandate.

   “I am perfectly willing to obey Belisarius in most things,” he said mildly, “but must, in all conscience, avail myself of the concluding clause in the Emperor’s letter.”

   He spread his hands. “Caesar orders that Belisarius must be obeyed in all his undertakings for the public good. I regard the proposed expedition to
Milan as not conducive to the public good. Indeed, it is potentially disastrous to our cause. Therefore no Roman officer, of which august body I consider myself a humble and unworthy member, is obliged to obey his orders in this instance.”

  
Silence fell over the chamber while Belisarius digested this extraordinary response.

    H
e banged his fist on the table. “You dare to quibble!” he shouted, glaring at Narses as though he meant to throw the little man from his seat, “I would remind you this is a military camp, not a law-court, and I will have my orders obeyed!”

   Narses matched him stare for stare. “Not, at the danger of repeating myself,” he trilled, “in th
is instance.”

   They argued back and forth,
but Belisarius lacked the means to force Narses into obeying orders. He dared not lay hands on the Emperor’s favourite, or take his command away from him. In the end he was obliged to concede, humiliated before his staff, and tear up his plans.

  
While our commanders argued, Vitiges had not been idle in Ravenna. His armies were battered and depleted after their recent misfortunes, but he was not done yet. Taking advantage of our hesitation at Rimini, he sent messengers racing through the Alps to beg for aid from their kinsmen in Gaul.

   “I hope none of you are
entertaining thoughts of home,” Belisarius said to a gathering of his officers one morning in late summer, “for we are likely to be here some time yet, maybe into the next year.”

   He looked grimmer than ever, and withered our groans with his basilisk stare. “Last night I received word from our men in
Perugia. Vitiges has despatched an army under his nephew, Uraias, to drive our troops from that province.”
   “Uraias is a pup,” Hildiger said scornfully, “send me north with a few thousand men, sir. I’ll whip him all the way back to Ravenna.”

   “I have no doubt you could,” replied
Belisarius, “but he is not our only concern. Three days ago, ten thousand Burgundian warriors crossed the Alps into Perugia. By now they will have joined the Goths outside the walls of Milan.”

   “We have much more killing to do
,” he added during the stricken silence that followed, “before this war is over.”

12.

The campaign dragged on into winter. Frustrated and hampered by the machinations of Narses, Belisarius was unable to strike a death-blow against his enemies, and Vitiges was able to recover some of his strength.

   R
einforced by the Burgundians, his nephew drove our hopelessly outnumbered forces from Perugia and laid siege to Milan. Vitiges continued to dig in at Ravenna, and despatched men to garrison and fortify a chain of fortresses running down the spine of central Italy, down to Orvieto, almost within sight of Rome.

   Belisarius was obliged to reduce every one of these fortresses, as well as other stubborn Gothic outposts scattered about the country. He got little help from Narses, who remained at
Rimini, stuffing himself with figs and hatching fresh plots with his friend, John the Sanguinary.

  
At last, in the depths of December, the main part of our army laid siege to Orvieto, a massive fortress town a few miles north of Rome. It was built upon the flat summit of an isolated hill made of volcanic tuff, with steep, almost vertical sides making it inaccessible from all sides. The natural defences of the tuff cliffs were reinforced by high walls and strong towers, and the town was manned by thousands of Goths.

  
Confident in their lofty position, and well-supplied with grain, the garrison refused all demands to surrender. For weeks we sat and shivered at the foot of the cliffs, while our siege engines lobbed rocks at the flinty walls, and the Goths responded with showers of javelins and curses.

  
All the while I thought of Ravenna, and Arthur. I seemed destined to get no closer to either.

  
One frosted morning I was sat outside my tent, sunk in misery as I tried to warm my chapped hands over a fire, when Procopius strode into view.

   “The general wants to see you,” he whispered, his breath misting in the cold air, “hurry along, in God’s name, before my blood freezes over.”

   Procopius was a creature of warm climes, and always suffered in the cold. Despite being wrapped up in several layers of shawls over a fur-trimmed hooded mantle and robe, his lips were blue, and his teeth chattered.

  
I followed him to the general’s pavilion, where Belisarius was bathing his feet in a bowl of steaming hot water. He had picked up a cough, and was attempting to drown it in spiced wine.

   “
Coel,” he said, peering up at me from his cup, “you look well. The healthiest man in the army. You Britons must have iron constitutions.”

  
“Our island is foggy, raw and damp, sir,” I replied, “we are raised to endure cold. It’s the heat I struggle with.”

   He broke off into a fit of vio
lent coughing. “Damn this chill,” he spluttered, wiping his eyes and banging his thin chest, “and damn this siege. Why can’t the Goths simply accept they are beaten, and sue for peace?”

   “They are a proud race, sir,” said Procopiu
s, “Vitiges is the proudest of them. He won’t be beaten until you have him in chains.”

  
Belisarius flapped a hand at him. “Never mind Vitiges. I didn’t summon you both here to talk of him. Read this.”

   He picked up a
tattered, water-stained letter and shoved it Procopius, who unfolded it and read silently, his bony brows knitted together.

   “
God curse him,” he said quietly, handing the letter to me, “and consign his twisted soul to Hell.”

   I read but slowly, and had to pick through the words with my index finger. The content was chilling enough.

   Milan had fallen. Belisarius had written urgently to Narses at Rimini, pleading with him to send troops under John the Sanguinary to relieve the siege, but the eunuch had demurred, claiming that John had fallen sick with fever.

   With no relief on the horizon, the Roman governor of
Milan, Mundilas, had surrendered to the combined army of Goths and Burgundians.

   “Mundilas obtained terms for himself and his soldiers, but none for the citizens,” I read out, “
the barbarians sacked and destroyed the city, slaughtering all the men they could find and taking the women and children as slaves. The bishop, Datius, escaped, but the prefect was captured and thrown into a cage full of wild dogs. The animals tore him into pieces and devoured him. Every church was plundered and fired, and the priests themselves massacred at their altars.”

  
I folded the letter, unwilling to read anymore. “If there is one consolation,” said Belisarius, “the loss of Milan means the end for Narses. I have already written to the Emperor, complaining of the eunuch’s failure to send men to relieve the city. Justinian will surely recall him to Constantinople, and I will be left with a free hand in Italy.”

   “You may be sure Narses has also written to the Emperor,” said Procopius, “putting his own side of the story, and
doing his best to blacken you. He is high in favour at court. I fear Justinian will put more faith in his account.”

   Belisarius winced, stifling another cough, and bade us both sit down. “You two are my
friends,” he said, “my real friends. The only ones I can trust. I will tell you something now, and want it to remain a secret between us. Understood?”

   I exchanged glances with Procopius, and we both nodded obediently.

   “Good. Procopius, you are usually the first to know my secrets, but not in this case. For weeks now, I have been in correspondence with Matasontha.”

   Mathasontha was the Queen of the Goths, and consort to Vitiges. It seems they were not a very
faithful or loving couple. She responded to his many infidelities by sending treasonable letters to the Romans.

   “She has made me all kinds of offers,” he went on, “anything to put an end to this war, to her advantage of course.
I will not bore you with the details, save to mention that she even offered to murder her husband and take me in his stead.”

  
He smiled bleakly at our shocked expressions. “A tempting offer, to enter into matrimony with a barbarian murderess. It would also require me to dispose of my poor wife. I refused, as gracefully as I could manage.”

   I wondered what Antonina would have made of it, and whether Belisarius yet knew of her adultery.
If so, he could have put her aside and wed Matasontha, but he loved his appalling wife far too much to even contemplate such a thing. Every great man has a failing. Antonina was his.

   “The time will come,” said Belisarius, “when the whole of
Italy is reduced, and we can finally march on Ravenna. I know that city. She is virtually impregnable, and it would take months, years even, to reduce her by siege and blockade. If I can induce Matasontha to betray Vitiges, and open the gates without a fight, so much the better.”

   “So far my messengers to her have proved loyal,
but they are mercenaries. Hired men, who work for gold. None of them has any love for me. I believe you do, Coel.”

   I blinked. Belisarius was staring intensely at me, as though willing me to agree. “I am loyal until death, sir,” I blurted out, unable to think of anything better.”

   He nodded. “I know. For that reason I have promoted you, well above what some may regard as your natural station. For that reason I will use you as my envoy to Matasontha. You have never failed me yet.”

   It sounded like dangerous work, but as always I was in no position to refuse. I bowed my head in acceptance.

   “No-one else must know I am in contact with the Goths,” he said earnestly, “some of my captains would call it treason. Others would use it as an excuse to undermine me. Our ranks are riddled with traitors and conspirators.”

 
He dismissed me, promising I would be despatched on my first mission very soon. In the meantime I would go about my normal duties and guard my tongue. I left him talking in hushed whispers with Procopius, feeling more like an expendable pawn than ever.

   Belisarius got what he wanted. Even Justinian could not ignore the disastrous loss of
Milan, and as winter drew to a close he recalled his favourite to Constantinople. His friend John the Sanguinary was recalled with him, and I entertained hopes they might be exposed to the Emperor’s wrath.

  
Narses could not be snared. He managed to clear both their reputations without too much difficulty, and resumed his duties as imperial treasurer, devoting his energies to enriching himself at the expense of the state.

  
Free of this hindrance, Belisarius’ old energy and purpose returned in a flood. Orvieto fell at last, starved and battered into submission, and he flung himself into the task of reducing the remaining Gothic citadels.

   I followed him through all the long, wearisome sieges that followed. Our army trudged from one stubborn fortress-town to the next,
smashing aside the Goths and their allies when they tried to oppose us in the field. By now, after almost two years of constant warfare, the Roman army was a disciplined and effective war-machine, almost fit to be ranked alongside the illustrious legions of old.

   Then the hammer-blow fell. At the beginning of summer, when it seemed the tottering Gothic cause
was beyond hope of recovery, terrifying news sped down from Liguria.

   “Two hundred thousand,” Belisarius said dully, “twice the number of men Vitiges brought to lay siege to
Rome.”

   There was a dreadful, flat quality to his voice
, a tone of almost careless despair. He had survived everything fate and his enemies could throw at him, and come within a whisper of final victory, but at the last God had deserted the Roman cause.

   The frantic, last-ditch diplomacy of Vitiges had borne fruit. The
odebert, King of the Franks, had brought a vast army over the Alps to join with the Goths and Burgundians in Liguria. The Franks were a numerous people, and their mighty host rolled through the snow-capped mountains like an avalanche, into the fertile plains beyond.