Flame of the West (7 page)

   “I wish to see your general,” I cried.

   “Welcome, friend,” one of them called back, “bring your men inside, and we’ll see about gaining an audience.”

  
I led my escort inside, and accepted the wineskin and lump of dry biscuit offered by the guards.

  
The possible identity of their commander puzzled me. All of Rome’s best commanders were already in Italy, or at least those I knew of. I judged there to be at least five thousand men inside the camp, probably more. The Emperor’s judgment was not always perfect, but he surely wouldn’t entrust an army to some inexperienced officer or court favourite. 

   Where, for that matter, had Justinian managed to find the men?
He had always starved Belisarius of money and soldiers, claiming the Empire’s limited resources were already stretched to breaking point. Belisarius’ achievements, given this lack of support, were all the more remarkable.

   The Heruls soon returned. “The general will see you,” said their captain, “but only you. Your men
stay here.”

   I shrugged, trying not to show my disqui
et. “Very well. But I go armed.”

   The captain made no objection, and took me through the camp towards the large pavilion in the centre. I took c
areful note of the soldiers, their tents and gear and provisions.

   The imperial eagle flew above the pavilion on a tall striped pole, and the walls of the pavilion itself were made of gold and purple silk
, a princely bower for an important man to recline while his soldiers slept under rough canvas.

   Two
tall swordsmen in richly-decorated armour and crested helmets guarded the entrance. They were
doryphori
, elite soldiers trained in Constantinople, better-paid and equipped than the rest of the army. Only very rich men, aristocrats usually, could afford to hire them as part of a private retinue or bodyguard.

  
The Herul captain exchanged salutes with the guards, and ducked inside the heavy silken folds of the pavilion.

  
I followed, heart thumping, and found myself inside a miniature palace. A cloying, sickly scent of perfume and incense filled the air. The ground was covered by layers of thick rugs, all of them intricately woven in the Eastern style, displaying twisting patterns of flowers and ovals, diamonds and hexagons, alongside naked humanoid shapes – gods and monsters and men - that seemed to writhe when the eye fell on them.

   The carpets were strewn with purple and gold cushions, and the marble busts of four Emperors stood in each corner.
Tellingly, they were four of the worst Emperors the Empire had ever known, masters of every kind of cruelty and depraved excess: Caligula, Nero, Caracalla and Elagabalus.

  
In the middle of this opulent, slightly queasy splendour, was a large divan and an elaborately carved table made of some dark polished wood.

   The occupant of the divan smiled at me, and raised his goblet in salute. He was an u
gly, crippled, dwarfish eunuch, as corrupt in mind as he was in body.

   “Hello, Coel,” said Narses.

8.

I stiffened, my hand flying to the hilt of Caledfwlch, half-expecting to feel the sharp kiss of steel in my back. Narses’ guards were just outside, well within striking distance.

   A high-pitched little
giggle came from the divan. “Oh, really,” said Narses in that piping squeak I remembered so well, “don’t be so jumpy. Do you think I mean to have you killed? How divine.”

   He wiped his mouth, and mopped
at some wine spillage down the front of his loose robe. “If I wanted you dead,” he added, discreetly stifling a belch, “you would already be enjoying the company of your ancestors. I imagine you and your grandfather would have a lot to say to each other.”

  
I shuffled away from the entrance, keeping a wary eye on him. He was impossible to trust, the wiliest and greasiest politician in Constantinople, intelligent, devious and merciless. His enemies tended to underestimate him, and made the mistake of judging him by his feeble, stunted form. His enemies tended to die.

  
Narses was my enemy, or so I thought. The last time we met, in Constantinople, he had demanded I give him Caledfwlch. I refused. Narses was not used to being denied.

  
He took another sip of wine. “Quite a coincidence, you coming here,” he said, “God wants us to be together. I cannot help noticing that I am making all the conversation.”

   “Perhaps God has sent me here,” I hissed, “I could kill you, here and now. Try calling for your guards. I would reach you first.”

   I half-drew Caledfwlch, exposing several inches of bright steel. Narses’ eyes flickered, but his manner didn’t change.

  
“What is all this talk of killing?” he asked, gently placing his cup on the table, “I have an inexhaustible list of enemies, entire ledgers full of names, but had not counted yours among them.”

  
I lost my temper. “You tried to have me murdered in Constantinople! Your assassins laid siege to Belisarius’ house while I recovered from my wounds, and then stalked me through the streets. You sent Elene and a treacherous guardsmen to hunt me through the ruins of the aqueduct outside Naples. Only God preserved me from the blades of your hired killers.”

   My anger was somewhat co
ntrived. I didn’t know if he was behind all these attempts on my life, and wanted to draw the truth out of him. Hard experience had taught me a degree of artfulness, though I was never a match for the likes of Narses.

  
He looked surprised, and even a little hurt. “Dear me,” he exclaimed, shaking his ugly head, “it seems there has been a misunderstanding. I bore no grudge against you for refusing to hand over Caesar’s sword. After all, it is the most precious thing in the world to you. I merely saw it as an interesting relic.”

   “As for the various bungled ef
forts to kill you,” he went on, “I did indeed have men watching you in Constantinople, but they were there for your protection. I can only assume Belisarius told you otherwise. Regarding Elene, I would not be so coarse as to send one of your ex-lovers to put you in the ground. No, that was Antonina’s doing.”

   I had suspected as much, but it was good to have my suspicion confirmed.
That said, I would have been a fool to place too much faith in his words. 

   “I see Belisarius has made you an officer,” he said, “I am guilty of misjudging him. He is a far more subtle man than I thought.”

   “What do you mean?” I demanded. If Narses wished to turn me against Belisarius, he was going to have a hard time of it.

   “He has made you his ally, showered you with favour and promotion
s, and succeeded in persuading you that he is your only true friend. All lies, Coel. It seems our golden general is not immune to deceit. I have always been your friend. Did I not rescue you from Theodora’s bed of pain?”

   I hesitated. It was true Narses had saved me from being broiled alive by the Empress.

   “You did it to spite her,” I snapped, “rather than any concern for my wellbeing. I will not be poisoned by your venom, snake.”

   Narses sighed, and ran a hand through his beard. “
I cannot do right, it seems. I am accused of being a typical lying politician, and yet when I tell a man the truth he throws it back in my face. Ah, well. You will learn. Belisarius is using you. Shaping you to his own ends.”

   His squealing voice had an oddly seductive, persuasive quality, but still I refused to listen.

   “What are you doing in Italy?” I asked, “why has the Emperor furnished you with an army, instead of sending the troops to Belisarius? You are no soldier.”

  
Narses shifted into a more comfortable position on the divan. “Perhaps not, but I am a reasonably competent chess player. Chess is a game of war, is it not? One moves the pieces on the board, tries to predict the strategy of one’s opponent, to outflank and outmanoeuvre him. It has the advantage of being bloodless, though occasionally a game ends in blows.”

  
I almost laughed. It was absurd, the notion of this twisted little half-man leading a Roman army into battle. He was fit for nothing but court intrigues, and should have remained in the lethal warren of the imperial court in Constantinople, where he reigned supreme.

   Narses noticed my amusement, and gave one of his lazy smiles. “Seven thousand men, Coel,” he said, “the Emperor
gave me all the troops he could spare. Why not send them to Belisarius, you ask? Because it is possible to be too successful, and emperors have fallen victim to over-mighty subjects before now. In short, Justinian trusts me, but not Belisarius.”

  
“Then he is a fool indeed,” I retorted. I was keen for the interview to end, but at the same time wanted to know the eunuch’s plans, and the Emperor’s reasons for sending him to Italy without informing Belisarius.

  
Narses sighed again and sat upright, swinging his short legs over the edge of the divan. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me, and that I would have to provide some evidence of my good faith. Like everyone else, you judge me by my appearance and reputation.”

   I started to mouth a denial, but Narses raised his hand. “Please. I don’t blame you. What right-thinking person would believe
the words of an abomination like me? I ought to have been exposed at birth and left to die.”

   “My evidence is this. The woman Elene, your ex-lover, is inside
Ravenna. She disappointed Antonina once too often, and threw herself on the mercy of the Goths to escape retribution. King Vitiges has taken her as an agent and a bedmate. She is still an attractive woman, and knows how to snare a king, especially one in such desperate need of comfort.”

   This s
hook me a little, but it had a ring of truth. Narses had no conceivable reason to feed me lies regarding Elene.

   “I care not
where she is,” I replied, “or what she does. Elene means nothing to me.”

  
Narses sniffed, and tapped his fingertips together. “She is not alone. Arthur is with her. Her son. Your son.”

  
Silence reigned inside the pavilion while I digested this. The reek of incense was starting to effect me. I felt dizzy and light-headed.

  
“Arthur is not mine,” I managed at last, “she named him after my grandsire to spite me. He is another man’s son. A man she married, long after we had parted ways.”

  
“Believe me, Coel,” said Narses, “I spoke privately with Elene in Constantinople, and met the boy. She spilled all her secrets in exchange for a bag of gold. Not a very large bag, in truth. She assured me you were Arthur’s father. There never was a husband. You were the last man to lie with her.”

  
He picked up the wine jug, wrinkled his misshapen nose in disappointment when he saw it was empty, and set it down again.

   “
She agreed to work for me, sending me the details of Antonina’s private letters, and was useful for a time. When she defected to the Goths, my agents trailed her to the gates of Ravenna.”

   “Enough of politics,” he added, stretching out his
right hand, “may I be the first to offer you my belated congratulations, Coel. You are a father.”

   I stared at his
hand, and at the grinning face above it. It was tempting, sorely tempting, to draw Caledfwlch and cleave his skull in half, but his guards would have butchered me on the spot. I had to live, to hunt down Elene and wring the truth from her.

  
Without waiting for permission to leave, I stumbled out of the pavilion, past his startled guards. They might have barred my way, but Narses’ voice squealed from inside.

   “Ah, let him go!”

9
.

I rode back to Hildiger in a daze, and reported the arrival of Narses.

   “Politics,” said Hildiger with a grimace, “we have not yet won this war, and already the pol
iticians are moving in. So he told you the Emperor distrusts Belisarius, did he? Perhaps Caesar sent Narses to act as a counter-weight to the general’s ambitions in Italy.”

   I listened distractedly, my mind weighed down with personal matters. The progress of the war was no longer important to me.
All that mattered was getting inside Ravenna, and finding Elene. Finding my son.

   She had lied to me, all those years ago, in the dungeons under the
Great Palace in Constantinople. I had been on trial for my life, falsely accused of conspiring to overthrow the Emperor. Elene came to visit me, in the darkness of my prison, and begged me to plead guilty to save the life of her son and husband.

  
According to Narses, her husband was a figment of her imagination, invented to manipulate me. Her son…our son…would be about sixteen by now, and had never known his real father. Had Elene never told him about me? Had she poisoned his mind against me, teaching him to hate and despise the man she once loved?