Flame of the West (8 page)

   The man she
tried to kill, under the ruins of the aqueduct outside Naples. Elene was a traitor, a double agent and a murderess. Like Theodora and Antonina, she had started life as nothing, a mere dancer and prostitute in the Hippodrome, and tried to claw her way out of the gutter. Unlike them, she had failed, and now cowered behind the walls of Ravenna, waiting for the end.

  
Once the city fell, Vitiges would not be able to protect her. He would be shipped back to Constantinople, to be paraded as a trophy through the streets, before facing execution or lifelong imprisonment.

  
I almost felt sorry for her. At least she loved Arthur – she must have done, to keep him by her side for so long – though I could only shudder at the thought of his upbringing, and what kind of man he had become.

   Hildiger’s harsh voice snapped me out of my reverie. “Coel,” he barked, “pay attention, man. What does Narses intend to do? Did he divulge his plans?”

   I shook my head. “No, sir. He told me very little.”

   In truth, I had neglected to ask, so desperate was I to get out of the pavilion, but Narses would never have revealed his intentions anyway. He had fed me just enough information as suited his purpose.

   The eunuch never said anything without a reason, and in this case he meant to turn me against Belisarius.
I was supposed to feel grateful to him, for informing me I had a son, and of Elene’s whereabouts.

   If Narses had a fault in his dark designs, he tended to over-elaborate. I felt no gratitude, and indeed felt little at all save confusion.
I was a simple man, of no great virtue and distinction, and easy prey for those who wished to manipulate me. They shifted me about like a pawn on a chessboard, a useful but disposable tool.

  
Hildiger rubbed his chin and gazed down at the encampment. “Well, seven thousand extra Roman troops in Italy cannot do our cause any harm,” he said, “let’s see how many men we can screw out of Narses. Then we press on to Rimini.”

  
Narses proved accommodating, and gave Hildiger five hundred infantry. Our combined force marched north from Ancona (none too soon, in my view) and advanced on Rimini. Hildiger copied Belisarius’ strategy, hugging the coast and sending out scouts to guard our left flank and explore the land ahead.

  
Rimini was an important city, a vital trade port as well as a link between the north and south of the Italian peninsula, and suitably grand. Julius Caesar had made a famous speech to his legions in the Forum of Rimini before marching on Rome, and his successors had adorned the city with arches, bridges and a fine amphitheatre.

  
I patted Caledfwlch as we rode under the Arch of Augustus, an impressive stone gateway erected by the first Emperor.

   Julius Caesar
never carried my sword into Rimini. He had left it buried in the skull of Nennius, a British prince, during his abortive invasion of Britain.

   “See, your property is in safe hands,” I whispered as I ro
de past a giant statue of the great man in full military regalia, carved in white marble. A chill stole over me, and for a moment I thought his shade was present, gazing at me in stern disapproval.

   John the Sanguinary rode out to meet us under the main gate of the fortress. He wore full armour, and the
ramparts above his head were lined with archers.

   “Still alive
, then,” said John, curling his lip at me after exchanging lukewarm greetings with Hildiger, “has Belisarius relinquished his command to you yet?”
   He spoke with heavy sarcasm, contempt dripping from every word, but I kept my composure. I wasn’t about to be lured into an argument by this vain little puppy. He was drenched in perfume, as usual, and stank like a bed of rotting flowers.

   “Belisarius commands you to quit
Rimini,” said Hildiger, “and hand over the fortress to Coel. He will hold it until the general comes up with the main army from Rome.”

   John adjusted his sword-belt
slightly. I could sense the tension in him, under his usual languid mannerisms, and looked up at the archers on the walls. Something was wrong.

   “We avoided the Gothic army on our way here,” Hildiger went on, as though nothing was amiss, “they ar
e marching up the Via Flaminia in this direction. Vitiges will probably move on to the safety of Ravenna, but leave a portion of his army to besiege Rimini. He cannot afford to leave the city in our hands. Your orders are to take your cavalry and harry his flanks, pick off stragglers and the like. Do anything to slow his advance.”

   He twisted in the saddle and pointed south, towards the ancient highway beyond
Rimini. “They cannot be more than a day’s march away. Good hunting.”

   John didn’t move. He had six lancers at his back, all of them fully armed, their faces hidden under mail coifs. Only their eyes peered out of the holes under their corrugated helmets, narrowed and hostile.

   “Well, commander,” said Hildiger after a pause, “you heard me. Order your men to move out.”

   Silence flowed a little longer, and then John raised his lance. The men on the walls immediately notched arrows to their bows.

   “I like Rimini,” said John, “the sea air does me good. I think I shall stay. You, however, must leave. Inform Belisarius that I will hold the city against the Goths.”

   He had paled a little, and his voice shook, but he was resolute.
I had thought him vain and arrogant, but never suspected he might be capable of mutiny.

   Nor had Hildiger. The veteran officer went white, and seemed to swell with rage. “
My God, what’s this?” he yelled, “you refuse a direct order?”

   “I do,” John replied, more calmly this time, “
Rimini is mine. I took it, with the blood and sweat of my men. It is only right I should defend it.”

   Hildiger gaped at him. “Yours? What do you think you are, some petty barbarian warlord?
Rimini is an imperial city, not an independent fiefdom, and you are an officer in the service of Rome!”

   “
Rome, yes, but not General Belisarius. I follow a different chief.”

   Hil
diger reached for his sword. I saw the archers draw back their bowstrings, ready to shoot him down.

  
“No, sir,” I cried, leaning over to lay my hand on his sword-arm, “draw, and his men will kill you, I am sure of it.”

   The other man ground his teeth, but let his hand fall way. “You shall answer for this,” he snarled at John, “I shall see you stand before a military tribunal. As for those archers, every one of them shall han
g for daring to threaten an officer.”

   John looked complacent now, secure in the knowledge we were powerless to challenge him. “Who knows?” he said with a smile, “perhaps you shall be the ones to stand trial. The game has just begun, my friends.
Now, I must beg you to depart, before my patience runs dry.”

   Hildiger was the sort of man who preferred to die rather than show his back, but there was no sense in waiting to be murdered.
We had just a small group of lancers for an escort, having left most of our men camped outside the city, so as not to alarm the citizens.

   “He has two thousand men inside the citadel,” growled Hildiger as we turned and slowly rode away, “
we have just fifteen hundred, and no siege equipment.”

   “With respect, sir,” I replied, “we dare not try and prise
him out by force. The Goths will be here soon. How Vitiges would laugh if he witnessed Romans fighting Romans!”

  
We cantered over the huge, five-arched stone bridge spanning the Marecchia River. Hildiger paused when we were halfway across and gestured at the inscription sculpted on the inner section of the parapet.

   “The
Tiberius Bridge,” he said, “work started on its construction during the reign of Augustus, and was completed under his successor. The Empire was united then, supremely powerful, and capable of great works. Now look at us. A hotchpotch of degenerates and mercenaries, squabbling over the crumbs of Italy.”

   It was unlike Hildiger to
be so philosophical, but something about John’s unexpected betrayal had shaken him.

   He turned to look back at the rising walls of the fortress, and the imperial flag fluttering over the gatehouse.

   “Damn him,” he muttered, “what is he up to? I can see no reason for this treachery. It will mean the end of his career. Maybe his life.”

   “He said he serves a different chief,” I reminded him, “I think I can guess who he meant. Narses.
”

   Hildiger mulled this over
. “It makes sense,” he said, “I seem to recall John and Narses were friends in Constantinople, though a man like Narses has no real friends, only allies. Perhaps they are hatching some conspiracy together.”

   “To discredit Belisarius,” I suggested, “or at any rate, hamper his conquest of
Italy. The Emperor has always envied and distrusted Belisarius, and Narses is the Emperor’s creature.”

  
Hildiger urged his horse on, and I followed him to the opposite bank. He said nothing more until we passed through the gates of the city. John, I noticed, had pulled most of his soldiers back to the fortress, leaving the city walls lightly defended.

   “
I think I can trust you, Coel,” he said as we jogged back towards camp, “so I shall speak treason in your hearing. Justinian is an idiot. Belisarius is the greatest living Roman general, the greatest since Aetius, and unshakeably loyal. If he had been properly supported, with money and men and provisions, Italy would already be under our heel. We might be contemplating the invasion of Germania by now, or the recovery of Gaul. Instead Justinian chooses to undermine him, and sends rats to chew at the lion’s mane.”

  
Your homeland might yet be saved.

  
Belisarius’ words sounded even more hollow now. The re-conquest of Italy was far from complete, and already the shadows of treachery and civil war loomed over the Roman cause.

10.

Having failed to persuade John the Sanguinary to give up
Rimini, we returned to Rome via the mountain passes, avoiding the Gothic host as it streamed up the Via Flaminia.

   As Hildiger predicted, Vitiges could not afford to leave
Rimini in Roman hands, and laid siege to the city. The King of the Goths took personal command of the siege, perhaps to restore his tarnished military reputation in the eyes of his countrymen. He sent half of his army on to Ravenna, where his energetic Queen, Matasuntha, was refortifying the city walls. 

   Belisarius had not sat idle at
Rome. Unaware of the presence of Narses in Italy, he marched north on what he hoped would be a final push, to break the back of Gothic resistance.

   For once, he persuaded his wife to remain behind out of danger, and left her in
Rome, where she continued her flagrant affair with Theodosius. Somehow Belisarius remained ignorant of her betrayal, or pretended to, though it swiftly became the scandal of the age.

   At first all went well
for him.  Awed by the terror of his name, the cities of Tudertia and Clusium surrendered as soon as his banners appeared outside their gates. The whole of the central Italian mainland was now in his grasp, and the Goths were in full retreat, abandoning their outposts and pulling back north, to try and regroup in the face of Belisarius’ remorseless advance.

   We found Belisarius at Clusium, where he had halted to plan the ne
xt stage of the campaign. He made the basilica in the centre of the city his headquarters, and was busy poring over maps when we arrived, weary and soiled from the road.

   “Coel,” he snapped, frowning when he saw me, “what are you doing here? Your orders were to stay in
Rimini and hold it against Vitiges.”

   “Christ
’s death,” he exclaimed before I could speak, throwing down the roll of parchment he had been studying, “has the city fallen?”

   “No, sir,” I replied, saluting, “
Rimini is still in our hands. John refused to give it up.”

   “We tried to remind him of his duty, sir,” put in Hildiger, “and he threatened to shoot us down. The majority of his troops
were inside the fortress. We had no means of forcing him to relinquish it.”

   I thought Belisarius would explode with anger, but instead a great weariness came over him. He sighed, and blew out his sallow cheeks, and pinched the bridge of his nose. This was not the first time he had been failed by a subordinate
, but outright refusal to obey orders was something new. 

  
“Is it mutiny, then?” he asked quietly, “has John betrayed Rome, and offered his sword to Vitiges?”

   “No, sir,” replied Hildiger, “at least, I don’t think so. He claims to still serve the Empire, but not you.
”

   “What the hell does that
mean?”

   Hildiger looked meaningfully at me. He didn’t care to tell the full story, an
d so loaded the responsibility (and the risk) onto my shoulders.