Siege of Rome (16 page)

   “A messenger just arrived by boat from the north. The Goths have deposed Theodatus and elected a new king in his stead. The new man is called Vitiges.”

   Th
is name meant nothing to me then, but my hand still trembles to write it. In place of the weak and timid Theodatus, the Goths had chosen a humble officer of obscure origin but considerable ability and force of will. Like Stozes, Vitiges had a gift for unifying a defeated people, and stirring them to fresh defiance.

   Procopius hurried to the palace to discuss this new threat with Belisarius and his generals. I stayed, finishing off my wine and
sadly tracing another name in a puddle of stale liquid on the table.

   Elene.

12.

In common with most deposed kings, Theodatus didn’t last long
. The Gothic nobles met at Regeta to pass his sentence of deposition and to proclaim the new king. As was their custom, they raised Vitiges on their shields, and his name was chanted by the assembled mass of soldiers.

   Vitiges’ coronation took place even as we marched from
Naples and advanced on Rome. Reluctant to weaken his already slender forces, Belisarius left three hundred men to garrison Naples, and a similar number at the fortress of Cumae, the only other stronghold of note in Campania. These necessary losses were more than compensated by the eight hundred Goths he had enlisted at Naples, though like many of our foederati troops they were treacherous and fought only for money. It was one of the miracles of Belisarius’ glorious career, that he achieved so much despite being almost always outnumbered, and with men who cared little for his causes. 

   
Our army marched along the newer road, called the Latin Way, though for the sake of romance we might have used the broad pavement of the Appian Way, which followed the same route just a few miles to the west. Procopius was seized with a kind of ecstasy at being so close to this famous highway, and galloped off to survey it without waiting for Belisarius’ permission.

   “It is a wonder of the world!” he
enthused on his return, “even after nine centuries of use, the pavement is unbroken, and the flagstones smooth and polished like glass. Oh, that I should live to tread the same path as the legions of old, as Caesar and Mark Antony and the heroes of the Republic!”

   I was keen to see the
Appian Way for myself, but Belisarius allowed his soldiers no time for sightseeing. He had to reach and seize Rome before the Goths rallied under their vigorous new king.

   It was now the beginning of December, and the fair summer was a distant memory. We struggled along the icy roads, buffeted by cold winds and pelting rain that soaked man and beast to the bone. I rem
ember glancing over my shoulder and being struck with fear at how puny and vulnerable our little army appeared, bogged down in winter rain and ice, more like a wandering band of fugitives than a mighty host bent on conquest.

   Belisarius had hopes that the Roman senate, along with the nobles and Catholic clergy, headed by Pope Silverius, would not support the election of Vitiges,
and welcome us into Rome without a fight. Vitiges, like his predecessor, held to the Arian heresy, and was no friend to the Catholic faith.

   His other great hope was that the deposed king, Theodatus, would escape and raise an army to reclaim his throne, thus splitting t
he Gothic nation. While the two factions tore each other apart, Belisarius could quietly take possession of the Eternal City. Then, after the Goths had all but destroyed each other, he would march out and sweep the survivors into the sea. Italy would be free of barbarians, and the heartlands of the Empire restored to her rightful rulers.

  
It was a good plan, but ruined by the prudence of Vitiges. After hearing news of the revolt against him, Theodatus had fled Rome and headed alone towards Ravenna, hoping to raise support there. Vitiges sent an officer after him, a young man who apparently held some private grudge against Theodatus. The officer pursued the fugitive night and day and eventually overtook him at the fifth milestone from Ravenna. There, Theodatus went down on his aged knees and begged for mercy, but the youth had none, and murdered him on the spot.   

   Word of Theodatus’s death reached Belisarius at Albano, where he had made camp before making the final advance on
Rome, just a few miles to the north-east. He camped near the crumbling remains of the Castra Albana, a series of military camps built by some long-dead Emperor to station his legions near Rome. A flourishing town had sprung up the ruins, but the inhabitants locked and barred their gates against us.

  
I was desperate to clap eyes on Rome, but Belisarius remained in camp for a full day and night, waiting for a response to the latest message he had sent to Pope Silverius and the senators.

   Once again the campaign hovered on the edge of catastrophe. If the Romans followed the example of the Neopolitans, and held true to their Gothic conquerors, we would be faced with the task of reducing the strongest city in
Italy.

  
Vitiges had withdrawn to Ravenna, where dire rumours reached us of the enormous host he was collecting from all corners of the Gothic nation. Unknown to us at the time, he was also in talks with the three Kings of the Franks who had previously sworn a pact with Justinian. In return for various bribes and promises, they agreed to betray the Emperor, and secretly send as many troops as they could spare to aid Vitiges.

  
“There are no clever stratagems that will fool the Romans,” said Procopius, “Belisarius has used up his supply of tricks and good fortune. There are four thousand Goths inside Rome, and over a hundred and fifty thousand of the brutes mustering at Ravenna and other places.”

   “A hundred and fifty thousand?” I scoffed, “that is an absurd figure.
The entire Vandal nation in arms at Tricamarum was no more than fifty thousand. No people on earth can muster that many warriors.”

  
He gave a mournful little shake of his head. “You forget, Coel, I have agents and spies planted all over the country. The Goths and Ostrogoths and their foul kinsmen are as numerous as locusts. If Vitiges draws all his power together, Belisarius cannot hope to face him in the field. Our pathetic little army would be crushed underfoot. Our only hope is to take Rome, strengthen its walls and endure the worst that the Goths can throw at us.”

   “
To what end? Even if we take the city, how long can we possibly hold it against such a monstrous host? Does Belisarius hope for reinforcements from the Emperor?”

   “Yes. Justinian envies his golden general, and is far too willing to listen to liars and flatterers who would have him believe that Belisarius is a traitor, but he cannot simply abandon us to our fate.”

   He held up a narrow finger. “One defeat, Coel. The Roman Empire stands perpetually on the edge of oblivion. One defeat is all it would take to tip us over the edge. Justinian cannot afford to throw away twelve thousand men.”

   “I remember Narses saying something to that effect,” I said, “on the dockside at Constantinople, as we watched the fleet assemble for the expedition to
North Africa. There was a time when Rome could muster ten legions for a campaign.”

   “Precisely. No
w we can barely scrape together as many as three, and most of our troops are barbarians and sell-swords. We are living in the latter days, Coel. All is vanity.”

   I looked at him in surprise. Belisarius had used those very words
to me, in the garden at Carthage, and the defeated Vandal king, Gelimer, had wailed them as he was paraded through the streets in Constantinople. Then I remembered that Procopius was closer to the general than I, and must have picked up the saying from him.

   Our pessimistic mood lasted until an envoy finally arrived from
Rome. He brought the news we longed for. Pope and Senate had decided to resist the Goths, and welcome the arrival of Belisarius with open arms.

   Belisarius was on his feet and barking orders almost before the envoy
had finished speaking. Infused with his spirit, our army shook itself into life and prepared to advance the last few miles to Rome.

   Even as our soldiers broke camp, B
elisarius turned from a meeting of his captains and beckoned at me.

   “
I must apologise,” he said, offering me his hand, “I meant to speak with you after the capture of Naples, but lacked the opportunity. Procopius told me you were the man who explored the aqueduct and discovered the secret way into the city. Yet another fine service you have performed, for which Rome thanks you.”

   He vigorously
shook my hand. I reddened, but he waved away the modest protests forming on my lips. “There is something else. Words are not enough. You are far too capable and useful a man to languish in my Guards, watching over my tent at night. I will give you a commission, and make you a captain of horse.”

   It sounded very fine, but in reality he made me a decanus, that is, a low-ranking officer in charge of ten cavalrymen.
He was far too canny a soldier to place a man with no experience of command in charge of anything greater. The next rank up was centenarius, commanding a hundred men, which would have put me in a position to do some serious harm to our own side if I proved incompetent.

   Still, it was another mark of favour, and another slap in the face of those who wished me ill.
I never knew what was said between Belisarius and Procopius in private, but suspect that Procopius may have suggested that I needed a permanent bodyguard of my own. Belisarius knew I had enemies, though he was still blind to the deceits and intrigues of his wife.

   “Thank you, sir,” I replied, bowing my head.
I glanced sideways and spotted Photius standing among a little knot of officers. Our eyes met for the first time since our brief combat at Membresa. I gave the hilt of Caledfwlch a meaningful pat. The message was clear: your time will come.

   The men he gave me were of the race of
the Heruli, the tribe of Germanic foederati troops I had lived and trained with for a time outside Constantinople. Belisarius knew my history, so it was probably a deliberate choice.

   I had picked up some of their language, and my wrists and arms still bore the faded
blue tattoo-marks inked onto them by Girenas, one of the few close friends I made among that clannish people. Poor Girenas had succumbed to the disease that swept through our fleet on the voyage to north Africa, but the marks were enough to overcome the initial suspicion and reticence of the men in my new command. They were good soldiers, disciplined after their fashion, with decent gear and horses, and lacking an officer since their previous decanus was killed during the street-fighting in Naples.

  
My men were attached to a cohort commanded by Bessas, and so now I was one of his subordinates instead of the ambivalent position I had held as a member of Belisarius’ personal guard.

   “Some men might regard this as a demoti
on,” he said, grinning at me, “swapping the easy life of a glorified bodyguard to serve as a junior officer of horse? You will have no easy time of it, I assure you.”

   “I have no desire for an easy life, sir,” I replied stoutly, and remembered to salute. He sneered at me and moved on, roaring at his captains to get their
troops into line. I knew Bessas as a brave and capable officer, if bloodthirsty, and trusted by Belisarius. In later years I would discover another, much darker, side to his character.

   Our army advanced on
Rome, and I shall never forget the moment we descended the ridge of Albano, and the Eternal City lay spread out before us.

   S
he was not quite as magnificent as I had pictured her, shimmering like some dream-city in a deathless summer haze. This was winter, and the city of stone and marble that lay before us was suited to the season. My overriding image is of a great expanse of stark grey and white buildings, with the gaunt silhouettes of the Circus Maximus and Capitol Hill looming over all.

   The fading images of my childhood are dominated by my first clear sight of
Constantinople, the mother of cities and apex of the world, straddling the Bosphorus like a vast glittering jewel. By comparison Rome was less grand, less opulent and exotic, and yet had a stern, forbidding majesty all of her own.

  
We advanced towards the city from the south, towards the Asinarian gate. Joy of joys, the gates stood open, and a great cheer rolled down the length of our army as the word spread: Rome had submitted, and the object of our conquest was achieved without a blow being struck.   

  
Bessas’ cohort formed part of the vanguard, and Belisarius ordered us forward to secure the gate. As we rode closer, a man became visible standing alone under the arch.

  
He was a Goth of noble status, his long fair hair brushed and powdered until it floated about his shoulders, clad in shining silver mail and a red woolen cloak fringed with white fur. An empty scabbard of red leather hung from his belt, and at his feet lay a fine spatha with a jeweled hilt. Lying beside the sword was a ring carrying a number of large iron keys.

   Bessas summoned me to his side. “
Your first duty,” he said, “go and speak to that idiot and find out who he is.”