The Neopolitans were as desperate to avoid a slaughter as we were, and persuaded the Goths to allow them to send out a deputation to speak with Belisarius. I stood by the general’s side and watched them file out of the city gates, six venerable old men with bald pates and white beards, waving olive branches of peace.
Their spokesmen was named Stephen. He was something of a philosopher and rhetorician, and pleaded eloquently with Belisarius to bypass Napoli and march onto Rome.
“We are true Roman citizens,” he declared, flinging out his withered brown hand to indicate the city, “and desire nothing more than to be ruled by a Caesar again.”
“Then give up the city,” said Belisarius. He was seated at his ease on a chair under an awning, with Antonina curled up beside him on a divan, eating white grapes and eyeing the Neapolitans with amusement.
Her husband made the old men stand, without shelter or refreshment, and wore his stoniest expression. The intention was to impress the ambassadors with his stern and ruthless bearing, and in this he succeeded. The men behind Stephen visibly quailed in the general’s presence, and I gave one wrinkled specimen a start by winking at him.
“Alas, the fate of Naples is not in the hands of its people,” replied Stephen, “the Goths rule the city, and will not allow us to open the gates. Their merciless king took their wives and children as hostages, and has let it be known that if Naples falls, he will cut all their throats. Therefore, dread Belisarius, you may expect them to fight and die to the last man rather than be conquered.”
A groan passed through our officers, but Stephen was not finished. “What benefit,” he added with another elaborate flourish, “can ensue to your imperial army from forcing Naples to surrender? Should you march on to Rome, and succeed in capturing her, the whole of Italy shall naturally fall into your hands. The loss of Rome will mean the end of Theodatus, and the families of our garrison here will escape the knife. Should you fail in your attempt on Rome, as is likely, then your capture of Naples shall prove useless, and a vain waste of money and men.”
He was blunt, this one, rather too blunt for a diplomat. Belisarius’ knuckles went white as he gripped the arms of his chair.
“You are speaking,” he said in firm and deliberate tones, “to the victor of Dara and the conqueror of North Africa and Sicily. Every one of my campaigns has been crowned with success.”
“Do not mistake that for false modesty, little man. Know that I was sent here by my Emperor to conquer, and so I shall. Do not think to close your gates against an army aiming to win back Italy’s freedom, and do not prefer barbarian tyranny to the ancient laws and liberties of Rome.”
Stephen began to splutter a protest, but Belisarius stilled his voice with a raised finger. “With regard to the Gothic soldiers, I offer them a choice. They may either enlist in my army, and share in our exploits and rewards, or they are free to disband and return to their homes. The fate of their families is not in my hands, except to say that I would disdain to serve a king who makes such craven threats against women and children. Persuade them to surrender, and I swear that your lives and properties shall go untouched.”
Stephen glumly shook his head, and so they prosed on for hours, arguing back and forth while the sun slowly dipped beyond the western hills and cramp stole into my aching limbs.
It was all a game, of course. For all his seeming virtue, Stephen was rotten to the core, and easily corrupted. When the official conference was over, he was invited to dinner with Belisarius and Antonina, and over the main course offered a huge bribe in gold and silver to stir up unrest inside Naples. He acquiesced, and returned the following morning with his fellows, no longer a servant of the Goths, but a double agent in the employ of Rome.
His efforts had no immediate effect, and for several days we sat and waited for the gates to swing open and admit us. Belisarius had a tight grip on the city, having invested it by land and sea. Nothing could leave or enter without his knowledge.
The Gothic soldiers on the battlements threw defiance at us, beating their spears on their shield and mocking us for robbers and degenerates, boy-lovers and stunted Easterlings and I know not what else. They had every reason to be confident. Our twelve thousand men must have looked a poor and scanty host, against the many thousands of Goths mustering in the north.
Theodatus, however, with all the advantages at his disposal, did nothing. He was a coward, and refused to lead his troops to relieve Naples, or send another man in his stead.
During this time Procopius returned, none the worse for his little adventure. I approached him after he had made his report to Belisarius, and asked how his quest for legendary monsters had fared.
“Success, I think,” he said, slapping his thin hands together, “an age-old mystery is solved.”
I gave him a cynical look, and he laughed. “No monsters, Coel. Scylla the six-headed hydra is nothing more than a rugged outcrop of rock, part of a cliff on the Italian side of the Strait. In darkness and foul weather, it is easy to understand how fearful sailors might have mistaken the outcrop for some kind of monster.”
“What of Charybdis, the ship-swallowing demon?”
“A whirlpool, I suspect, off the coast of Sicily. Both natural elements are within arrow-shot of each other, so they quickly became merged in legend. When I have time, I will write down my findings and present them to the imperial court in Constantinople.”
I glanced outside the pavilion, at the high walls of Naples and the peaceful city that lay beyond them, apparently undisturbed by the presence of our army without.
“If any of us ever see Constantinople again,” I said gloomily, “unless our agents do their work, Belisarius will waste his strength outside this city. At some point Theodatus must find his courage, or the Goths will put him aside and choose a braver chief.”
Belisarius was always careful of the lives of his men, and reluctant to throw them away in a frontal assault on Naples. The city was protected by steep ground on the landward side, and any attempt to storm the harbour would end in catastrophe: the garrison had learned from the example of Palermo, and stocked their ramparts with war-machines to guard against any approach by our ships.
Bessas and the other officers demanded that an attempt be made to storm the walls, and at last Belisarius yielded. In the early hours of morning, just before first light, he sent in his Isaurian infantry, supported by detachments of foederatii, with ladders and grapples to scale the ramparts near the eastern gate.
The Goths were waiting for them. I stood and watched the slaughter, muffled up in a heavy cloak against the morning chill and privately thanking God that Belisarius had kept his guards in reserve.
Our men stormed up the slope, arrows and javelins hurled from the battlements clattering against their upraised shields. Many fell, but more reached the foot of the walls and swarmed up the ladders. Hard fighting followed, and I sensed Belisarius’ tension as the struggle for the ramparts swayed back and forth. Spears and axes glinted in the morning mist, and the clatter of steel mingled with the screams and shouts of the combatants.
“Sheer folly,” I heard him mutter, “I have sacrificed my men on the altar of vanity. God forgive me.”
The assault failed. Our men lacked the numbers, while the Goths were continually reinforced from inside. Belisarius held his head in dismay as the Isaurians broke and fled back down the ladders and ropes, pursued by the jeers of the enemy and a storm of missiles. They left the slope carpeted with dead and dying. In a single assault we lost above three hundred men, far more than we could afford.
Bessas and Troglita urged another assault the following day, but Belisarius would not hear of it. He returned to his pavilion to brood and accept what comfort his wife could give him. Always, in times of grief and difficulty, he resorted to Antonina. That was where her power lay.
The vital days of autumn slid away, and still our army languished hopelessly outside Naples. Unknown to us, Stephen’s efforts to whip the citizens into revolt had been blocked
by two of his fellow rhetoricians, named Pastor and Asclepiodotus, both of whom were devoted to the Gothic cause. Inspired by these, the people threw in their lot with the Goths, and joined with them in haughtily commanding us to withdraw.
Procopius buried himself in the histories of Italy, which he had brought to him from strong-rooms and libraries all over Lucania. Belisarius appeared to have no need of him. With no reinforcements on hand, and nothing save bad advice from his captains, the general sank into a torpor.
With defeat grinning at us, I thought this a bad time for Procopius to give himself up to scholarly pursuits, and told him so.
“You look tired, Coel,” he replied, looking up from a yellowing scroll he had been studying, “you should get more rest.”
“I will rest, when I know I can lay my head down at night without fear of an assassin’s blade. What is that rag of old sheepskin you’re peering at?”
He rested his chin on his knuckles and smiled at me. “A history of Naples during the reign of Augustus,” he replied, “it is extremely dull, and badly-written, but useful.”
“Here,” he said, peeling back the scroll and placing his thumb on another beneath it, “is a crude diagram of the Aqua Augusta, as mapped out by Roman architects.”
I squinted at the faint lines on the decayed bit of parchment. They showed the lines of a great aqueduct constructed during Augustus’s reign, some five hundred years previously.
“The aqueduct was intended to supply fresh water to no less than eight Roman cities in the Bay of Naples,” said Procopius, “including Naples, of course. Eight cities! A staggering achievement, but one the Romans of old were capable of performing. Its source was the mountains outside the city of Avellino in Campania.”
“I have seen the ruins of the aqueduct,” I said, “some stretches remain, scattered around Naples. What of it?”
Procopius sat back in his chair. “You are on light duties at present, are you not?” he asked.
I wondered at his sudden change of subject. “Belisarius has little need of me, other than my shifts guarding his pavilion.”
“Good. Then you have plenty of free time to improve your mind. We are in the heart of Italy, Coel! The centre of the Western Empire, before it fell to pieces. There is so much you can learn here.”
“I’m not much of a scholar,” I said, eyeing him warily. Procopius seldom indulged in idle chat.
“I certainly cannot imagine you devoting yourself to study,” he said, “the hard-faced British warrior, spending his days staring at ancient writings? No, you are of a more practical disposition. I think you should explore some of the ruins of the Aqua Augusta.”
He plucked a scroll from the heap, scanned it quickly, and held it out to me. “There is a particularly interesting series of channels sketched out here,” he said, “a little to the west of the city. Go and seek them out, Coel, and marvel at the wonders of Roman architecture.”
10.
I did as Procopius suggested, and rode out that same afternoon to inspect the remains of the aqueduct west of Naples, less than a mile from the boundaries of our camp.
Seen close to, the ruins of the Aqua Augusta were a great crumbling series of stone arches piled on top of each other, ivy-grown and decayed, and in places entirely fallen away. Part of the channel was still connected to the city, but there were gaps in the rows of arches above the surface. The surrounding land was a wet and stagnant bog, thanks to the water seeping out of the disused channel and polluting the ground.
I tethered my horse in a little wood and wandered among the ruins. The complexities of the design were beyond me, but I knew that the majority of the wells and cisterns were underground.
“There will be entrances to these subterranean tunnels,” Procopius told me before I left, “find one, and explore as far as you may. I trust you have no fear of dark, constricted spaces.”
In fact I did, but it seemed to unwise to say so. Procopius had sent me here with more than mere sightseeing in mind.
The ruins were silent. No birds sang nearby, and I began to feel I had entered a mausoleum. The Aqua Augusta had once been a glory of the Empire, but like the Empire it had fallen into neglect and disrepair. I was an ant, a pygmy, wandering haplessly through the remnants of a dead civilization.
At last I found a narrow rent in the wall, once a doorway, but partially blocked up by fallen masonry. It was still wide enough for me to squeeze through. For some time I stood irresolute, contemplating the darkness that lay beyond with fear and trepidation. My skin crawled at the thought of groping through the shadows beneath the earth, and of what might be lurking in those long-abandoned tunnels.
Turn back, or press on. Some residual sense of duty overturned my fear, and I scraped though the gap.
Beyond was a passage, wide enough for two men, and a stone floor that sloped sharply downwards. Gulping down a sense of panic, I shuffled carefully down the passage, keeping one hand pressed against the damp wall. The floor was slimy, but my way was guided by the light streaming through the entrance.
The light was snuffed out as I descended further. For a time I crept along in total darkness. The air was musty and warm. All was silence, save for the steady drip-drip of water somewhere close by. My breathing came hard and fast, and my heart fluttered in my chest like a trapped bird.
At any moment I felt certain the walls would close in, forcing me into a steadily shrinking space, until I was crushed inside a stone box. I almost soiled myself at the prospect of being buried alive in this dreadful vault. Only the reassuring weight of Caledfwlch at my hip prevented me from turning back.
Blessed light returned, slanting through collapsed sections of the ceiling, far above my head. I found myself following a steadily widening passage. An arched channel, similar to the ones I had seen above ground, ran through the middle of the passage and vanished into the darkness ahead. It was smaller than the surface arches, about eight feet high and four wide. I was no engineer, but even I could see that the water that supplied Naples had once flowed along the conduit.
The passage was not straight, but ran in crooked lines for what seemed like several miles. I followed it for as far as my courage would take me. My nerves were stretched to breaking point, when the passage came to a sudden end.
I was confronted by a wall of natural rock, pierced by an aperture wide enough for water to flow on into the remainder of the passage beyond and into the city. Heart thumping, I climbed up onto the lip of the channel and peered along the gap. It was too narrow for a man to pass through, but the rock was soft here, and could be widened by picks.
Excitement swelled inside me. Here was a secret route into the city.
I carefully dropped back onto the floor. It was vital I returned to Belisarius at once, and informed him of this unlooked-for doorway to Naples.
Not unlooked-for: Procopius must have suspected its existence from his studies, and sent me to search for it.
My fear of dark and enclosed spaces lifted as I ran back down the passage, replaced by glorious visions of being publicly fêted as a hero, the man who saved Belisarius from almost certain defeat. He would be grateful, that was certain, and perhaps even give me a command. I pictured myself at the head of a troop of cavalry, proud mailed lancers on good horses, and knew that Arthur’s shade would be proud of me.
I stopped dead. Some echo had reached my ears, a snatch of whispered conversation, quickly stifled. It drifted from somewhere up ahead, the dark stretch of passage which no light could reach.
There it was again:
“You should not have come…”
This was a man’s voice, deep and low.
“I had to. I wanted to see his face. Once more…”
A woman’s voice this time, with an awful familiarity about it that made me shiver. It could not be. My mind was playing tricks, or else the ghosts of my past had somehow found a voice in this subterranean hell.
The voices were stilled, but then I heard footsteps, very faint, but definitely there.
Someone – no, two people – were trying to move quietly, but the echo was defeating their efforts.
I pressed my back flat against the wall. My mouth had dried up. Terror clouded my thoughts.
Antonina had sent her murderers after me. Was that the true reason for Procopius sending me here, alone, where I could be quietly killed and my body disposed of? Had he betrayed me? Did I have no true friends in this world?
I forced myself to be calm. The sound of footsteps was getting louder. If they were assassins, they were careless about their work. Over-confidence, perhaps. The presence of a woman puzzled me. Female assassins were not unknown, but the butchering of an armed soldier in the dark was work for men.
“Once more…”
Those words replayed in my mind. I had a suspicion of who had uttered them, and it tore at my heart. Still, she had betrayed me once, so why not again?
I looked around desperately for a hiding place. The conduit inside the channel was the most obvious. I would have preferred a recess in the wall, but there was none. The walls of the passage stretched away either of me, smooth and flat and featureless.
“See, here are his marks…”
The man’s voice again. He had discovered my footprints. I clambered up the arch in front of me, gritting my teeth as I scraped my wrists and ankles on the rough stone. There were plenty of handholds, and I quickly scrambled up and over into the dry conduit, where I lay flat on my back. I slowly drew Caledfwlch and laid the blade across my chest, ready to use.
Now their steps were right beneath me. I could hear their breathing: rapid, heavy, the sound of people in fear. That was some comfort. These were no cool, ruthless killers, but novices, every bit as nervous and frightened as their prey.
It would have been easy to remain hidden, but my soul revolted against being stalked like an animal. I had the advantage, not they, and would use it.
Siege of Rome Page 9