Siege of Rome (7 page)

   We hurriedly assembled on the drill-yard outside the palace. Belisarius soon
appeared, buckling on his breastplate and trailed by a group of officers, including Photius. The godlike young man looked immaculate in a gleaming silver breastplate and plumed helm, as though he had been waiting in his armour for the order to march.

   His personal guard were formed into an old-fashioned maniple or cohort of five hundred men, divided into six centuries of
eighty men each. They were the cream of his Veterans and bucelarii, or men like me who had performed well enough in past campaigns to be admitted to their ranks. Above all, we were men Belisarius felt he could trust on the battlefield and off it.

   “
First Century, with me,” he shouted as our men tumbled into line, “the rest, dismissed.”

  
I was technically appointed to the Third Century, but there was no question of me staying behind.

  
The eighty men of the First followed the general as he hurried down to the docks. There were a few Egyptian sailors lounging near the jetty where Belisarius’ ship was moored. He pressed these unfortunates into service, roaring at them to get aboard and make ready to sail, if they valued their lives. Abandoning their games of dice, the Egyptians scrambled aboard the galley and started hauling on ropes.

  
We followed, pounding in double file up the gangplank. It felt as though I had barely drawn breath since Belisarius threatened to have me flogged. The wind was set fair, and my stomach gave a lurch as the mainsail billowed and the steersman turned the ship’s prow south.

   Over a hundred miles of open sea lay between
Syracuse and Carthage. Our ship sped through the sparkling blue waters like a dolphin, propelled by Heaven-sent winds and the fierce will of Belisarius. He stood at the prow, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the western horizon.

   Meanwhile I clung to the side and emptied my breakfast into the sea.
I hated myself for showing such weakness, especially in front of my comrades, even though they tactfully looked away.

   “God preserve my strength,” I muttered between
dry heaves, touching the hilt of Caledfwlch for luck. I would need all of my grandsire’s warlike skill and resolve when we reached Carthage.

   We started early in the morning, and arrived within sight of the Tunisian coast just before dusk. The scattered lights of
Carthage lit up the dark mass of the coastline, like thousands of yellow stars gleaming in the night sky.

   Belisarius called me over to his side. “There,” he said, pointing to the so
uth of the city, “the rebel host.”

  
I clung to a rope and squinted at a smaller gathering of lights, several miles distant of the city. If Belisarius was right, the rebels had quit Carthage and set up camp on the desolate plains outside.

   “Perhaps our soldiers in the garrison found their courage,
and forced them out,” I said.

  
“We shall soon find out,” he replied, “I mean to sail into the harbour and announce my presence. If we are greeted with rocks and curses, then at least we shall know who holds the city.”

  
Our ship ghosted into the bay of Carthage. No horns or trumpets greeted our arrival, but there was no hail of missiles either. When the ship reached the chain that acted as a boom, Belisarius ordered the imperial flag to be hoisted on the mainmast, and his trumpeter to announce our arrival with several loud blasts.

  
Lights flared along the sea-walls that defended the harbour to north and south. I stood in the front rank of guards behind Belisarius on the foredeck, wincing as my bowels dissolved in sickness and fear. At any moment I expected the bombardment to start, and our ship to be smashed to pieces.

   Instead a smal
l boat put out from the harbour and rowed slowly towards us. A man stood up in the belly of the boat and held a lantern aloft. The light illuminated his face, showing a youthful, bearded visage, his cheeks scarred with tattoos I recognized from my time among the Heruli.

   “
Who are you?” he called out in a thick Germanic accent.

   “General Flavius Belisarius!” replied Belisarius in his best parade-ground bark, “and you will sal
ute a superior officer!”

   The soldier’s face lit up in a grin. “General!” he cried, saluting, “thank God! We had hoped for your comin
g. Where is the rest of your fleet, sir?”

   Belisarius thr
ew up his hands in exasperation. “Am I a general or a schoolmaster? Every man thinks he can ask questions of me. Turn your boat around, soldier. Inform your comrades that Belisarius is here, and expects every man in the garrison to be armed and ready to ride out at dawn.”

  
“It could be a trap,” warned Bessas as the boat rowed back to shore, “how do we know the garrison is not in league with the rebels?”

   “We don’t,” said Belisarius, “but what would you have me do? Sail around in circles until our enemies die of old age? We must act, or withdraw.”

   “Coel, with me,” he added, nodding at me, “if you see anyone suspicious, wave your magic sword at them until they disappear.”

   I
ignored the sarcasm and clambered down the ladder into the launch behind him. There were six boats, each large enough to carry fifteen men. Belisarius stood in the prow, his fur-trimmed red cloak thrown back to display his golden helm and ornate breastplate. He had donned ceremonial armour to dispel any doubts regarding his identity.

  
Like Bessas, I feared that we were heading into a trap. I crouched well behind my shield, peering over the rim to look for any archers concealed among the line of soldiers waiting for us on the docks. As we drew near they clicked their heels together and held out their right arms in a military salute.

   I sagged with relief. “Welcome, General Belisarius,” called out one of their officers, cupping his h
ands round his mouth, “we are yours to command.”

6.

Belisarius wasted no time. All through the night he worked to ready the garrison to sally out at dawn. He was consumed with nervous energy, and needed no sleep, but allowed me and the rest of his guards to snatch a few hours of rest in the barracks outside the governor’s residence.

  
The garrison was made up of foederati troops, most of them Herulii. When I woke, I sought out one of their officers and enquired what had passed since Solomon fled Carthage. He told me that after sacking the city, the rebels had marched out to meet their allies on the plains of Bulla, where two years previously I witnessed the Vandal host muster before the Battle of Tricamarum.

   “As soon as they were gone, we ventured out and closed the gates,” said the officer, “then we raised the imperial flag on the battlements, to show that
Carthage was Roman once more.”

   I looked at him with contempt. “But you did nothing to protect our citizens when the rebels were running amok in the streets,” I said, “and only found your courage behind strong gates and high walls. For shame.”

   He reddened, and flung up his hand. The Heruli, like all Germanic peoples, are fiercely proud, and quick to fall to blows.

   I
waited for the blow to fall. “Strike me,” I said calmly, “and let it be a quarrel between us. I am happy to meet you, blade to blade, on private ground of your own choosing.”

  
There was no-one else within earshot, otherwise he would have had no option but to accept the challenge. As it was, he confined himself to spitting at my feet, and then stalked away. Another enemy to add to the list, I thought wryly as I wiped my boot with the back of my gauntlet.

  
We had left our horses behind in Syracuse, but Belisarius found mounts for us in the stables of the governor’s residence. He mustered his little army on the barren ground south of the city, and harangued us just as the red orb of the morning sun rose over the hills to the east.

   “Soldiers,” he cried, riding back and forth across our front rank on his bay, “our enemies are cowards, and have fled inland rather than face us like men. My scouts inform me that they have forged an alliance with the
degenerate Moors, and wait for us outside the city of Membresa, some fifty miles west of here. They outnumber us four to one, and have made a private soldier named Stoza their chief. He is a Roman, like us, but has broken his fealty to God and Emperor. Are we dismayed?”

   Absolutely, I thought, but
along with the rest of The First Century I drew my sword and held it aloft.

   “Never!” we shouted. Our voices echoed across the dusty plain, and were taken up by the garrison troops fo
rmed up behind us and on the flanks. They were all light cavalry, armed with spears and large round shields. Despite their craven behaviour during the riots, Belisarius had chosen to put his faith in them. He had no choice, since there were no other troops available: all of the neighbouring Roman garrisons had thrown in their lot with the rebels.

  
Belisarius led us on towards Membresa, which lay beside the banks of the River Bagrades. I had never thought to set foot on African soil again, and as we rode my mind conjured up images of what I had seen and suffered in this strange land: the mad King of the Vandals, Gelimer, cackling like a crazed old woman as he raised Caledfwlch and swore to wipe the Roman army off the face of the earth; the humiliating rout of our vanguard at Ad Decimum; the blood-soaked sands of Tricamarum, where Belisarius exterminated the  last Vandal host; the hell of my captivity on Mount Papua; the weeping boils that encrusted Gelimer’s face and finally broke his will to resist. No, I had little reason to remember Africa with any fondness, and was anxious to quit the country again as soon as possible.

  
Belisarius knew that speed and surprise were essential to our slender chances of victory. Though we lacked remounts, he kept us at a furious pace, and our army arrived within sight of Membresa shortly after noon.

   Membres
a was a sprawling city, but undefended by walls, so the rebel host had taken up a strong position on a nearby hill. They were some eight thousand strong, a rag-bag of Arian heretics, Roman mutineers and Moors. Their commander, Stoza, knew his business, and had fortified his position with ditches and entrenchments.

  
Belisarius took one look at the rebel defences and shook his head.

   “
It won’t do,” I heard him say to Bessas, and he was right. A frontal assault against the rebels would be suicide, so he ordered the army to pitch camp near the banks of the river.

  
All through that long, hot spring day the rival hosts stood and stared at each other. Belisarius had placed his camp between Stoza’s men and the city, cutting off their line of supply. His hope was that the rebels would soon run short of rations, and would have to give battle or starve.

  
Our own rations were limited, since we had left Carthage in haste. Belisarius solved that problem by leading three hundred of his cavalry into Membresa and forcibly taking food from the citizens. He promised to pay when the rebels were defeated and North Africa once again a Roman province, which must have been scant comfort to those he stole from.

  
Still the rebels would not move. Night came on, and I did my shift on watch, huddled up in my cloak and field blanket as I watched the fires on the hill. If Stoza had been a bold man, he might have tried a night assault. Belisarius was not to be taken unawares, and had half his men stand to arms while the others slept. At one hour past midnight, those who slept were shaken awake and placed on guard, while their comrades sank gratefully to rest. 

   I was booted awake the following morning by a grinning
captain. His name was John Troglita. Like Bessas, he was another Thracian of mixed blood, and a veteran of the recent wars in Africa and Mesopotamia. He would go on to achieve general rank, but I chiefly remember him for possessing the ugliest face I have ever seen, something like a cross between a debauched wolf and a plague victim.

   “Up, Briton,” he snarled, jerking his thumb in the direction of the hill, “
those bastards have finally decided to advance.”

   I rose, bucking on my sword-belt and straining to see the enemy. A strong wind had
blown up during the night, whipping dust and sand across the plain.

   “Damn it,” I muttered,
blinking and holding my arm before my face. The wind showed no signs of dying down, and an eerie howl rolled across the desert landscape, like a horde of distant wolves moaning their death-songs.

  
I glimpsed a multitude of spears and banners moving down from the hill. The rebels marched in poor order, especially the Moorish cavalry and camel-riders on the flanks, who had little notion of military discipline. Our Roman mutineers were easy to spot. Their infantry marched in column in the centre, with auxiliary cavalry guarding their flanks and rear.

   Anger coursed through me
as I watched them advance. The mutineers were still flying Roman standards, as though they were the loyalists and we the rebels.