From this uncomfortable vantage point I was able to witness the destruction of the Gothic fleet.
Indulf’s mindless greed proved the death of his cause. While his men plundered our transports and slaughtered the crews, the Roman warships to the north turned about and flew south to intercept him, driving a wedge between his squadron and the remainder of the Gothic fleet, led by a Goth named Gibal.
Our crews were more experienced than the Goths, and skilfully outmanoeuvred the lumbering enemy vessels, pounding them with artillery before closing to board. We had more fighting men, too, and thinned out the numbers of Gothic warriors with showers of arrows and javelins. Rams were a thing of the past, and so the issue had to be settled by exchanges of missiles and the murderous heat of close combat.
The above is a calm, concise overview of the sea-battle of Sena Gallica, such as might be taught in a schoolroom. At the time, clinging like a rat to my barrel, all I could see were the vast shapes of war galleys, Roman and Gothic, crashing together like sea-monsters.
My ears were full of water, but I could hear muffled noises of battle: men fighting and killing, screeching as they suffered mortal wounds and plunged into the sea, the endless thump-thump-thump of drums as the Gothic vessels floundered, oars flailing as they laboured to turn about. Their squadrons drifted and lost cohesion, allowing the faster, better-handled Roman ships to swoop in and pick off the stragglers.
The foaming seas were tainted with gore. I saw men drowning, stretching out their hands to me in desperate, futile supplication even as they went under. Limbs thrashing, blood spurting from terrible wounds and clouding the water. A few were lucky enough to catch hold of bits of wreckage, and bobbed about like human corks, tossed this way and that according to the whim of the ocean.
Our captains were thorough. Every time a Gothic ship was captured, the crew slaughtered or taken prisoner, it was set on fire and turned loose. Abandoned vessels drifted aimlessly about the sea, lit from stem to stern by raging fires.
The midday sun was hanging like a copper gong in the sky, partially obscured by leaping flames and clouds of smoke, when one of our dromons picked me up. It was trawling for Roman survivors in the water, and rowed close enough to hear my feeble gasps for help.
“Not dead yet, eh, grandfather?” remarked one of the grinning young sailors who threw me a rope and pulled me aboard. I would have collapsed on deck, but they caught me in their arms and gently lowered me onto my rump.
“Not dead yet,” I agreed in a hoarse whisper. One of them passed me a bulging gourd of wine, and I emptied it, glorying in the warmth spreading through my insides.
There were two or three others in the same condition. God, in his infinitely random mercy, had chosen to pluck us from the sea while our comrades drowned. We sat in miserable silence, wrapped up in layers of blankets and mumbling at the hard biscuits handed out by the crew.
The sailor who called me grandfather stood beside me, gazing at the aftermath of battle. I counted no less than thirty-six burning Gothic ships. A few were sinking, their gutted, charred carcases slowly dipping below the waves. The few survivors were in full flight, racing towards the distant port of Sena Gallica and safety, pursued by our triumphant fleet.
“Roma Victor,” I heard the sailor whisper. A ragged cheer swept through the dromon, and then I fell asleep.
11.
Having smashed the Gothic blockade, our fleet sailed on to relieve Ancona. We found the garrison and the citizens on the verge of starvation. It was a town populated by hollow-cheeked ghosts, reminiscent of the pitiful wretches I had seen wandering the baking wastes of Perugia. War, I have found, brings nothing but famine and ruin and misery to most, while any fleeting shreds of glory are reserved for wealthy aristocrat-soldiers like John the Sanguinary.
He, of course, had won his great victory, and led his guards through the streets in a tasteless martial parade, banners flying and trumpets blowing. Those few citizens who had the will and the strength gathered on the pavement to watch him pass. Mute, faded, scarecrow-like figures, greeting his ridiculous procession in baffled silence.
I went along to witness the farce, and could not help but compare it to the triumph awarded to Belisarius after his conquest of North Africa: the entire populace of Constantinople chanting his name as the golden-armoured figure marched proudly down the Mese at the head of his seven thousand Veterans; the showers of golden coins and medals he ordered to be distributed from baskets to the mob; the Emperor Justinian and his consort, robed in purple and gold and waiting to receive the victorious general in the opulent splendour of the Hippodrome.
By contrast, John was nothing, an ambitious courtier seeking to ape his betters, completely devoid of any self-awareness.
Nor, thankfully, was he aware of me. I kept to the shadows as he rode past on his high-stepping white horse, a faceless ghost, hoping he thought me drowned.
Whether John had put me aboard one of the condemned transports out of personal spite, or on the orders of Narses, I could not be certain. Either one of those cold, calculating minds could have been responsible.
I was content to stay dead. The fleet was due to sail from Ancona up the coast to Ravenna, to wait for the arrival of the army led by Narses. I also wished to go to Ravenna, and there await my son, but not with the fleet.
All my horses were drowned, along with the majority of the transport crews. A horse-trader with no horses to trade is of little use, and I didn’t care to let John know I was still alive. Instead I would travel to the capital by land, alone.
Some forty miles lay between Ancona and Ravenna. It was a risky journey. Rome still maintained some control over the eastern coast, but lacked the soldiers to send out regular patrols. I could well meet with a Gothic raiding party, who would either split my throat or let me go free, depending on their mood. They would certainly never suspect that this plump greybeard was Coel ap Amhar ap Arthur, the British warrior in Roman service who once held the Sepulchre of Hadrian against their forebears.
First, I needed money. The sailors who rescued me from the sea had kindly given me a pair of old boots, a cloak, and enough wine and biscuit to sustain me for a couple of days. I had not a penny to my name, and so slept rough in an alley. Fortunately the late summer weather held, so the nights were warm, and the fleet departed for Ravenna on the morning of the third day after its victory over the Goths.
With John safely out of the way, I went in search of work. I eventually persuaded the landlord of a down-at-heel taverna down a narrow street in the poor quarter to hire me.
“The pay is shit, and the lodgings dirty,” he said, scratching his unshaven chin as he squinted at me, “you’re a little old for a pot-boy, ain’t you?”
“I’m clean, reliable and hard-working,” I replied brusquely, “what more do you want?”
Nothing, was the answer, and so he set me to work. Picture, if you can, the one-time Roman general and owner of Caesar’s sword, washing pots and serving foul ale and gruesome slop to a crowd of Italian drunks!
Come good fortune or bad, I have always made my way in this world. I slaved in the taverna for two months, renting a tiny garret in the cheapest hostel I could find in the poor quarter. What I lost in dignity I made up in coin, and by the end of that time had earned enough to buy a dagger and enough rations to last me to Ravenna.
I also hired a horse, a tough, wiry little hill pony from Campania, of the sort I wouldn’t have allowed through the gates of my stables in Constantinople. She suited my purpose, though, and I paid the black-gummed ostler’s outrageous price without quibbling. All I wanted was to get to Ravenna, and see Arthur again.
It was early November by the time I set out, a bad time for travelling, with icy winds sweeping in from the Adriatic and lashing the rocky coast.
Careless of the weather, and the potential dangers of the road, I set out on a blasted grey morning. I neglected to inform the landlord of my departure. No doubt the greasy brute soon found another slave to wash his dishes an
d take his abuse.
The Flaminian road was largely deserted, and I passed just one convoy of wine-merchants taking their wares from Rimini to Ancona. Their heavily laden wagons were guarded by eight Sarmatian mercenaries, who glared suspiciously at me as they trotted past.
I remembered the Sarmatians who had escorted me and my mother to Constantinople: hard, brutal warriors from the broad steppes of Rus. They spared age nor sex during their blood-stained killing frenzies, and I took care to avoid their gaze.
Rimini, the scene of my bloodless victory over a decade previously, lay roughly midway between Ancona and Ravenna. The city was now again in Gothic hands. I was no longer in Roman service, and so planned to rest there for a night or two, safe behind its high walls, before continuing to Ravenna.
I spared my pony, and led her on foot for most of the way, not wishing to exhaust her with the strain of carrying my bulk. Purple clouds were billowing across the sky by the time the distant lights of Rimini came in sight, a cluster of yellow pin-pricks against the gathering darkness to the north.
My soldier’s instincts had grown rusty with disuse. The horsemen were on me almost before I saw them, half a dozen grey shapes thundering out of a little cluster of woodland to the left of the road.
“Stay where you are,” a man’s voice shouted, echoing in the gloom, “or you’re dead.”
I paused, one leg cocked over the pony’s saddle. She wouldn’t be able to carry me out of danger, not from these fleet riders.
“Steady,” I whispered, stroking her neck as she whinnied and tossed her shaggy head in fear.
The horsemen clattered onto the road and spread out to surround me. I meekly folded my hands and waited, while making a swift inventory of their number and quality.
Eight men, more than I first thought. Mounted on good horses, and with a military look and discipline about them. Each man carried a long spear, a dagger, and was protected by a helmet and oval shield. Light cavalry, of the sort I had once led into battle.
“A first-rate ambush,” I said when the dust had settled, “General Belisarius could have done no better. Though he practised his art against the enemies of Rome, not defenceless travellers.”
One of the riders came forward. A tall, broad-shouldered man, with the look of a lancer about him. His face under the helmet was lined and grizzled, scorched by desert suns, and his eyes had a keen, knowing look.
“We are neither friends or enemies of Rome,” he said, levelling his spear at my breast, “which are you?”
12.
I judged my answer carefully, with his spear-point hovering close to my heart.
“I am also for neither,” I said, “I am a deserter. Like you.”
Those shrewd eyes narrowed, weighing me in the balance. Then he smiled and raised the spear.
“How did you know?” he asked, gesturing at his men to lower their weapons. He looked and sounded Germanic, though from which particular strand of that teeming people it was impossible to say.
“Old soldiers know deserters when they see them,” I replied, “your men have good gear and horses, but have a slovenly, undisciplined look. You carry no flag and wear no insignia.”
“We might be spies.”
“You might. If so, you are in need of training. Spies should stick to their hiding places, instead of charging out like raw recruits to accost travellers.”
I was forcing myself to speak boldly, gambling it would impress him. All the while, my innards were dissolving. Deserters or spies, these men were cut-throats, and would happily spill my guts if I uttered a word out of place.
One of the other riders trotted forward. “This is a waste of time,” he snarled, “this one has no money on him. Let’s kill him and have done.”
And be damned to you, I thought. “No,” said the first man, who was clearly the leader of this troop of bandits, “he is a fellow spirit. Like us, he has deserted his flag and country, and taken to the road.”
“What if he’s lying? We can’t afford to trust strangers.”
My would-be killer was one of the ugliest men I had ever seen. His skin was raw and chapped, as though someone had poured boiling water on his face, possibly in an effort to improve it. Two deep-set little eyes, gleaming with malice, were set either side of a great curving dagger of a nose, under which resided a mean little mouth.
He was clearly itching to put his spear in me, and doubtless had the blood of many innocents on his hands. Such born killers have to be dealt with, and quickly.
His captain barked with laughter. “Trust?” he cried, “and do I trust you, Gambara? Do I trust any of the Masterless Men? Not a bit of it. I sleep with one eye open, and one hand on my dagger.”
The one named Gambara gave back, scowling, and his captain turned back to me. “I am Asbad,” he said, “leader and master of this company of rogues. Give me your name and quality.”
Asbad, I thought. A Gepid name. The Gepids were an Eastern Germanic tribe, and close kin to the Goths. In common with most German tribes, they were not particular in their loyalties, and happily enlisted under the banner of whoever paid them most.
“Coel ap Amhar ap Arthur,” I replied promptly, “a Briton, recently in the service of Rome.”
I thought it pointless to lie. Any brief fame I had enjoyed was long in the past. These men were all young, and would not have heard of me.
“A Briton, eh?” said Asbad, smoothing his long reddish beard, “and what are you doing on the Flaminian way in time of war, alone, with nothing but that little knife to protect you?”
“I was heading to Ravenna to see my son. He lacks his father’s wisdom, poor lad, and still follows the eagle.”
Asbad smiled, and some of his men chuckled, which was pleasing to hear. With the exception of Gambara, I was winning them over.
“Your words have the ring of truth,” said Asbad, “so you’re either an honest man, or an accomplished liar. Either is welcome in the Masterless Men. How far can that pony carry you?”
I gave her muzzle a pat. “Far enough, though I would not like to push her. I am not as svelte as I once was.”
“Good. No more than five or six miles of discomfort lies before her tonight. Mount, Coel ap Amhar ap Arthur. Your son will have to wait.”
I knew better than to argue. Asbad’s friendly tone could not conceal the true nature of the man. He was a wolf, and so were his followers. Italy was full of such roving bands, the inevitable debris of a long war. Some were ex-soldiers, others merely criminals, or natives who had lost their homes and families in the bloodshed and turned to highway robbery.
They robbed and murdered and plundered with impunity, living off the land and their fellow men, until justice caught up with them. Belisarius, who had a particular hatred of deserters, used to hang them by the dozen, and leave their bodies to swing by the roadside as a warning.
I climbed aboard my pony and followed Asbad and his Masterless Men into the trees. They had set up a temporary camp in the heart of the wood, but Asbad wanted to move on.
“Too close to Rimini,” he explained, “and there has been little traffic on the road of late. Not worth the risk. We shall head inland.”
We rode east, in the gathering gloom, following a rough track that wound out of the woods and over the rolling hill country beyond. Far ahead, stretching in a rugged line from north to south, lay the Appenines.
Even though I had fallen into the hands of thieves and cut-throats, I did not despair. I was alive, and unharmed, and Asbad appeared to have swallowed my tale of being a deserter. I suppose I was, in a way, though I had not enlisted in the Roman army. There had been enough truth in the lie to lend my words conviction.
Eight men was a small enough following. I entertained hopes of stealing a horse and slipping their grasp, when the time came, but these quickly turned to ash. A few miles east of the Flaminian way, we arrived at the gutted remains of a little village.
It had been a peaceful place, once, nestled in the crook of a fertile valley, until
the Masterless Men descended from the hills with fire and sword. All but one of the stone cottages was a blackened wreck. The maimed corpses of the inhabitants lay scattered about, but this was not the worst horror.
As I said, one of the cottages had been spared. There were men lounging outside it, eating a rough supper of bread and cheese, and smoke rose from the chimney. They rose to salute Asbad as we cantered down the single street, which ended in a basilica.
The basilica was the largest building in the village, and it puzzled me why Asbad’s men had not requisitioned it instead of one of the miserable little cottages. Though small, it was a pretty place made out of some kind of pink stone, with a flat roof and a short flight of steps leading to an arched doorway.
“They tried to take refuge in there,” said Asbad, winking at me, “the women and children, I mean. And the priest.”
I stared at him, and again at the mangled corpses. They were all men. Most had died fighting, or trying to, their fists still curled around rakes and pitchforks and other makeshift weapons.
The walls of the basilica were streaked with soot, spilling out from the narrow windows. Some dreadful impulse made me dismount and walk slowly towards the steps.
“Only one door, see?” said Asbad, “they barred it from the inside. Stupid. No escape route. Every good soldier knows you always leave a means of escape.”
I mounted the steps. The nailed and timbered door had been smashed in, and its edges were burned black. I stretched out my right hand and gave it a gentle push.
The people inside had been dead for several days. Little remained of them, save a few blackened cinders and bits of bone and hair. The flagstones of the long nave were tainted with grease, and the still air carried a vague hint of roasting meat.
I should have been sickened, but I had seen worse. Such things happened in war. With terrible clarity, I saw the last moments of the villagers trapped inside the basilica. Unable to get out, clutching each other in shrieking terror as the Masterless Men hurled flaming torches through the windows.
Caesar's Sword: The Complete Campaigns Page 59