by Jack Ludlow
‘Put your shield over your shoulders to cover your back. First sign of an arrow, pray to God and ride hard to safety.’
What they got were shouts of incomprehensible derision and even though they sat a while no one came to address or insult them in Latin, so eventually they trotted off to jeers, carrying on their inspection until the walls ended at the western shore, and there Flavius sat musing.
‘It would be remiss not to examine the sea walls but I fear it will be to no purpose.’
Back at the point at which they had begun their inspection a fishing boat was commandeered. Flavius had them rowed out into the wide bay and then close into the sea-stained stonework, standing up to get a good look and lifting his head several times as if seeking a measurement.
‘Photius, find a better boat than this and head back to Catania. Order the fleet to this bay. They are to make haste and spare no canvas or rower for time is of the essence.’
It was just the task for a keen youngster and he was given an escort of four experienced men to avoid him being tempted into an adventure that might be dangerous. With nothing to do Flavius went to his tent to join Procopius and to get from the messenger from Carthage, a senior tribune, some idea of what had been happening in the province since he left. There had been victories and defeats but the key battle was that of Solomon against the largest body of Moors.
‘You will have heard tell, General, of the way they used camels against the Vandals, well they tried it on Solomon. They made a circle in which they put their women and children, being nomads even when fighting they travel with their families—’
That got a slightly impatient nod; Flavius had no need to be told that.
‘The place they chose to give battle was cunning, a flat plain but with some high hills on one side. Solomon suspected that not all the Moors were amongst their camels.’
‘He was at Dara, so he would suspect some of his enemies to be in hiding behind those hills.’
‘Aye. We tried to attack those on the flat ground from the open, plain flank but the horses panicked at the smell of the camels. Not one archer of your bucellarii could settle them enough to fire a bow, so the horns were blown to retreat.’
The tribune could see in the face of Flavius that the thought did not please him, and that he could accept. It was the look Procopius was aiming at him that rankled. What did this jumped-up scribe know of what he was speaking, or any aspect of fighting?
‘The order came to dismount and Solomon led us back into the fight on foot, but instead of attacking straight on he slid round to the other flank, the mountain one, and struck from there. The Moors had left that side short and those hidden, well whatever they thought, they did not engage and we broke through the line of camels as easy as kiss my hand.’ That got a loud sniff. ‘Easy to kill camels, Your Honour.’
‘Moors?’
‘Them too. A lot were slain, the rest taken as slaves and that included the whole crowd of women and children. Fetched a pretty penny, they did. Next Solomon and Theodorus the Cappadocian caught the Moors in a trap in Byzacium and that was a grand slaughter I’m told, but for details I wasn’t there, Your Honour, so I can’t tell you much.’
‘And the mutiny?’
‘Where to start. Men ain’t been paid, land that they was hoping for, having wed the Vandal widows, been taken for Justinian, may his greed send him to hell.’
‘Careful where you say that, Tribune.’
That made the fellow sit up and he recounted all the problems that assailed what he had left in peace. Not just those mentioned, but also religion, for if it seemed right to shut the Arian churches and deny baptism, that took no account of the number of Arians in the imperial army such as the Heruls. Then there were Vandals stirring things up too.
‘One piles on top of another and before you know it, mutiny.’
‘Led by whom?’
‘No one.’
That could not be true, but this tribune had no idea. The arrival of Solomon – who had fled Carthage – with the fleet fetched by Photius, brought the information Flavius required but that had to be set to one side since nothing could be done until he had dealt with what was before him. That required that he take to one of the larger transports and sail it as close to the walls of Panormus as was commensurate with safety.
‘I may be too old for this.’
That was said as he began to climb the rigging that held the large central mast. It was not age that was against him but motion of a kind he had never before experienced, even in rough seas. The height exaggerated what on deck was light swell and Flavius felt his stomach churn as he swayed back and forth. For all his discomfort he had observed what he had come to see, though the descent he found was ten times more nerve-racking than the ascent.
Back on deck he spoke with the master mariner acting as the fleet commander and laid out his proposals, to which the fellow readily agreed, sending men off in a boat to go round the other large transports. Some were ordered to join with the vessel on which Flavius was still feeling unwell, others to send their most commodious boats.
‘Photius, ashore as quick as you can with those boats and fetch me my archers.’
They came in small packets and some of them, even in a calm bay, were showing signs of being green at the gills. While they had been travelling, the transports chosen had lined up on the command vessel and were busy anchoring head and stern so they became as stable a platform as was possible on an open sea.
‘Eight archers per boat was the command’, and men who had got gratefully to the deck were put back from where they had come, with a cheerful Flavius commanding his stepson Photius, ‘to wave to our enemies’.
This the boy did, a line of faces at the battlements that seemed to have no idea what was coming; hardly surprising, few did. The boats full of archers were now being rigged with lines, split to both sides so as to keep them even. That done Flavius gave the men on the windlass the order to haul, and slowly, one by one, the boats were raised till they were as near to the top of the mast as they could go.
‘Choose your targets, no arrows to be wasted.’
It was hard to see from the deck but from aloft the masts were much higher than the sea wall defences, which were lower than the landward wall. The archers were firing down on Goths who had nothing with which to defend themselves for they had no archery with which to reply. The protection they relied upon was gone and the threat of what would follow was obvious. A seaward assault in which they dare not man their parapet.
‘Photius. Take one of the other boats and offer the garrison terms. They may leave without their weapons and we will transport them to Italy. They have till the morning to decide.’
With that he called to the archers to desist.
The positive reply came back as required; the man leading the garrison knew he could not withstand the tactic which had been employed against him. A ship was arranged and the Goths marched out of their own watergate as the Romans marched in, the man Flavius was leaving in command given one order to be carried out straight away.
‘Get the masons working, I want those seaward walls up to the height of a Goliath.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Flavius had no time to hang around and watch those walls being built; he selected two of the fastest ships available, one to be sent off to Constantinople with a demand for gold. In the other, along with a hundred of his comitatus, he sailed for Carthage, a journey so short it allowed him limited time to assess what he would face on arrival.
Solomon had made certain dispositions before he departed; Theodorus was to hold the capital until aid arrived and a messenger was sent to Numidia and the far west with orders to seek to seduce as many mutineers as possible in these areas by bribes and promises, the aim to starve the rebellion of men because Flavius knew the most important factor was going to be numbers.
As yet he had no idea who he would face as an opponent or what kind of force he would lead, but it took no great imagination to work out that
as well as disaffected imperial soldiers, any rebellion would bring out from the hedgerows those Vandals who had not accepted his amnesty and remained in hiding, while many more would revert to their previous allegiance: they might not get their own kings back but the notion of being free of the Roman yoke would be attractive.
The recently defeated Moors might help, but there was some hope that the wounds Solomon had so recently inflicted upon them went so deep they would still be licking them and in no condition to interfere. Reassuring was the fact that no senior officer seemed to have defected, which meant that when it came to command there was a fair chance the man who led the mutiny would lack knowledge, though it had to be accepted that some people took to command naturally.
The good fortune that had always attended his actions favoured Flavius once more. As soon as he sailed into harbour and his figure, standing in the prow, was recognised – his banner might be seen as a sham – the spirits of those holding the city rose and such a lift in their mood was essential. The day before, the leader of the revolt, a fellow called Stotzas and elected to the role by acclamation, had brought his forces, reckoned to be some eight thousand strong, to the walls of Carthage and demanded it be surrendered to him.
Theodorus had rejected that and to buy time sent a representative to treat for terms; it was an indication of the depth of feeling such mutinies generated that the poor fellow was killed and his crucified body set up below the walls for the inhabitants to see and ponder on, the message plain: this will be your fate if you resist.
‘How has he mustered so many cavalry, Theodorus? His numbers well exceed what he could raise by just mutiny.’
‘Vandals.’
‘Even with those.’
‘It includes men we sent to the east as mercenaries.’
Seeing his leader confused he explained they had taken over the ships transporting them and headed back home in time to join Stotzas.
‘And he has recruited slaves, promising them freedom.’
‘Foolish.’
It was not the notion of freeing such people that animated that response from Flavius: slaves would be too fickle to easily command and in a battle could be a hindrance rather than an aid; trained infantry were bad enough, slaves would be a rabble. He led the way up on to the walls to gaze over the mass of campfires that seemed to stretch forever, and his orders were simple. To gather every available man capable of fighting within the city and promise them great rewards to serve under his banner.
‘We will not match them, Flavius Belisarius,’ Solomon ventured.
‘We don’t need to, we only have to beat them.’
Said with confidence and an ironic smile it was designed to bolster what was a desperate cause and the same was true of what followed.
‘My banner on the battlements so it can be seen at dawn, and get the news to this Stotzas somehow that I am here and back in command.’
The effect of that surprised even Flavius. At dawn, either because of the standard flapping on the walls or the information of his arrival, the rebel army quickly began to decamp and head south, for his mere presence promised them a battle they had hoped to avoid. Stotzas had clearly expected the gates of Carthage to open because it was indefensible but with Belisarius defiantly there he could have no idea how many troops the general had with him and how many more were on their way.
Even less expected was that they would be immediately pursued by Flavius who knew he had a mental advantage; they were afraid of him but that would diminish with time and distance. The knowledge that he was on their tail would sow doubt into their whole endeavour for the common soldier was a fretful beast; how could they fight and defeat the empire’s most successful military leader?
Moving faster than the cumbersome rebels he caught them outside the city of Membresa where they had camped. The place was unwalled and therefore offered no defensive advantage, so Flavius did likewise. With only two thousand effectives Flavius was massively outnumbered and his campfires sent that message to his enemies; he would need that famous good luck and more to achieve a victory, perhaps even to survive.
Dawn broke with dust in the air, caused by a strong wind coming off the Mediterranean. The sand was not blinding but it must indicate to any commander with a brain that it would put him at a disadvantage when it came to an exchange of missiles: archery, spears, or even slingshot. Those Belisarius deployed would have added range against his firing into the wind and it was obvious this was noticed and acted upon.
With the River Bagradas on his flank, Stotzas sought to turn that into his backstop, angling his forces so that the wind would blow south across both fronts, which would not only nullify any advantage but would force Belisarius to likewise manoeuvre, given his inferior numbers. It might even oblige him to withdraw.
But Stotzas was no great leader, he had been a member of the guard of General Martinus, now holding Numidia. He was seeking to control a ragtag force that lacked either good training or internal discipline. Given those drawbacks and his greater numbers he should have taken what regular troops he had and could have relied upon to create a body of troops that could defend movements that would render him vulnerable.
What he got was confusion: mounted Vandals mixed with the imperial mutineers, on foot and horsed who, as a body, had little cohesion in themselves, being from all over the empire and now very likely led by strangers. In amongst that were what Flavius had already estimated as a ball and chain in battle: the mass of slaves to whom a simple command was so easy to misunderstand and enough to cause muddle.
‘Solomon, the cavalry. An immediate charge and do not try to hold them back, let them loose, it is time for fear to do its work.’
Even Solomon, a man who trusted Flavius Belisarius absolutely, hesitated to execute that command. The few horses they had were their best men.
‘Do as I say. Now!’
Not all the dust in the air was now coming from what was blown off the land. As much was being generated by the untidy manoeuvres Stotzas was seeking to carry out, with men and horses stamping up a cloud. The sound of the horns seemed to cause the whole thing to freeze as everyone stopped to see what they portended, for not all knew. Those who did, ex-imperial soldiers, recognised the advance when they heard it and it was not coming from those close to Stotzas. Aware an attack was coming they sought to rush to where they had been told to deploy and that turned disorder into mayhem.
It was hard to see beyond his own cavalry lining up to charge, but there was a definite ripple along the line of the rebels and it presaged the flight of those who were not familiar with battle. They began to break and run, which spread to those who should have known better. But panic is contagious and that was what happened now.
Before the Belisarius cavalry had really got going the entire rebel force was in flight, the plain before his eyes a mass of fleeing men who, when they reached their encampment, did not stop to gather their possessions but carried on and abandoned them. When Flavius led his troops into that he found they had also left behind any monies they had sequestered as well as the women with whom many an imperial soldier hoped to acquire inherited land.
There could be no pursuit beyond that, Flavius lacked the numbers, but the work had been done; he had every confidence that once broken that force would not again combine, for there would be no end of mutual recrimination and Stotzas and his other mutiny leaders, if they had any sense, would be looking for a place where they could go beyond the reach of Roman revenge.
Hubris is quick to strike when any man feels too pleased with what he has achieved; as famed for his modesty as much as his military skill, Flavius Belisarius would not have been human had he not been aware that it was his name that had been as much the cause of success as any other factor. Had Stotzas not struck his camp and fled as soon as he heard of his return? So the man who rode back into Carthage was entitled to a little pride.
That lasted no more than the time it takes to get through the gate: there was now an uprising in Sicily, anoth
er mutiny, these with troops he had not long left and caused by much the same reason; a lack of pay. He was gone by the time the news arrived that Stotzas had managed to reform his rabble – clearly his tongue outbid his skill on a battlefield – and Marcellus, the man left behind in command as dux, feeling they were dealing with an enemy who would be easy to overcome, set out to finish what had failed to be completed by the departed Flavius Belisarius.
The name said a great deal. Marcellus was the offspring of an old patrician family that could trace its roots back to the Palatine Hill in Rome and even to the days of the Republic. His rise in the army had been as swift as befitted the influence his relatives could bring to bear and his pride reflected both his background and the feeling of natural authority that belonged to his class.
When they found and confronted the rebels, Stotzas asked to be allowed to address the troops Marcellus led, which included foederati, bucellarii and Gepid mercenaries. Thinking the rebel was about to plead for forgiveness, permission was granted, for such a man as Marcellus, trained in rhetoric, could not conceive that someone so low born might have the gift of persuasion.
In a rousing speech Stotzas listed the grievances that had driven him to mutiny and these were matters as yet unresolved in any part of the imperial army in North Africa. He then asked that the men join him instead of fighting him. Those Marcellus led and Belisarius before him had declined to mutiny through caution, not out of love for Justinian or the empire, and they were swayed; soon the dux found his army melting away.
Aware that he faced annihilation, Marcellus and his inferior commanders abandoned those still loyal and took refuge in a church, from which Stotzas, now in command of both forces combined, offered them safe passage to Carthage. As they exited the church and left sanctified ground he killed them.
Back in Sicily, Flavius had managed to restore order through his personality, reputation for honesty, as well as his military prowess. He was aided by the arrival of a ship bearing that which he had insisted be sent from Constantinople: gold to pay his troops. His other demand had been acceded to as well; money was on its way to Carthage and with it came fresh troops that could confront any further trouble under an imperial nephew called Germanus, who naturally sought advice from Flavius Belisarius.