Siege of Rome

by David Pilling

  He was the same over-earnest, slightly unsettling character I had known in Sicily. His startling blue eyes gazed at me from a mask of blood and sweat with brazen intensity.

  “I have told you before, there is no debt between us,” I said, disengaging my wrist with some difficulty from his clasp, “one of my men had the idea of using the statues. I have done no more than my duty to a fellow officer.”

  I may as well have remonstrated with the wall. He enfolded me in a bone-crushing embrace, and I might have never escaped from it had the Gothic horns not renewed their dreadful song.

  “They are coming again!” he cried, pushing me away, “back to your post, Coel. We can hold them here now.”

  I led my Heruls back towards the Salarian Gate, none too quickly, for I was exhausted from my vigours and reluctant to risk my skin a third time. God had so far kept me safe in the battle for Rome, but a man can only stretch his luck too far.

  The streets beyond the Bridge of Hadrian were all but deserted, for the terrified citizens had taken refuge inside their homes from the fury of the Goths. I took the opportunity to lean against a wall and catch my breath.

  My Heruls stood around, waiting impatiently for me to recover. They were all young men, my juniors by ten years or more. Only ingrained respect for a superior officer prevented them from running back to the sound of fighting, like hares outpacing a tired old hound.

  God, it seemed, intended to keep me busy that night. I had not rested for more than a few seconds when the sound of hoof beats clattering over the cobbles reached my ears, and Bessas thundered into sight, accompanied by a few troopers.

  “You!” he shouted, reining in at sight of me, “to the Praenestine Gate, at once! Every man is needed there!”

  He rode off without waiting to see if I followed. The Praenestine Gate was at least a mile away, in the south-eastern quarter of the city, and was part of the region called the Vivarium, where the Romans had once housed the wild beasts they kept for public entertainments.

  Duty summoned me for one last effort, and so I forced my aching legs into a trot. The Heruls jogged at my side, eager for more bloodshed. They were a savage and warlike people, as I had learned in their camp outside Constantinople, and their taste for violence and fighting knew no bounds.

  As we drew nearer to the Vivarium I overheard the thump and crash of artillery. The Goths were bombarding the gate and outer wall, which was lower than the inner and made of inferior quality stone, with their catapults and onagers.

  The bombardment abruptly ceased, replaced almost immediately by the clash of steel and the familiar sound of men fighting and dying. We turned a corner and almost ran into a column of our soldiers, advancing at the double towards the gates.

  I paused to take stock and wipe the perspiration dripping from my brow. The Vivarium consisted of an enclosure between the higher inner wall and the outer bulwark, which the Goths were attempting to storm. Our men inside the enclosure had abandoned the bulwark and retreated a few paces, where they stood at bay to repel the tide of barbarian warriors pouring over the rampart.

  Bessas was riding to and fro behind the lines, shouting at our infantry to form a shield-wall. Reinforcements were hurrying towards the fray from the various smaller gates inside the inner wall. Bessas roared them into battle, and the weight of their additional numbers stiffened our sagging line and shoved the Goths back, slaughtering many and driving the survivors back over the wall.

  It was a temporary respite, and the sound of those hateful bull-horns gave warning that the enemy were reforming for another assault. I offered up a quick silent prayer and led my Heruls on to take our places in the rear ranks of the shield-wall Bessas was hurriedly assembling.

  “Fill those gaps, there!” he yelled, his voice shrill and hoarse, “get the dead and wounded to the rear. Take a mouthful of water and pass your pottles around to those who have none. Move faster, you dogs!”

  I thought it a vain effort to try and defend the outer bulwark. The wall was too low, and our numbers too few to hold it indefinitely against wave after wave of Goths. I looked around at our men, and saw only grey faces, drawn with effort and exhaustion.

  There was another who agreed with me. Hoofs clattered behind me, and I looked around to see Belisarius cantering through a gate inside the inner wall, followed by a group of his officers.

  The general had come straight from the battle at the Salarian Gate. He looked no less tired than anyone else, his helmet and breastplate dinted and smeared with blood, his face gaunt, heavy jaw clenched against fatigue.

  He summoned Bessas to his side. The two spoke urgently, their voices too low to hear above the din of horns and war-shouts. When they were done, Belisarius wheeled his horse and disappeared through the gate, while Bessas gestured at his trumpeters.

  “Withdraw!” he screamed once the shrill blast of the trumpets had died away, “abandon the wall, and form line here!”

  He pointed at the foot of the inner wall. Our men shuffled backwards to reform in front of him. The manoeuvre caught me by surprise, and I was almost knocked over and trampled under the front ranks, but two of my Heruls pulled me clear. I thought I overhear one of them grumble something about looking after the old man, and shot him a venomous look.

  “Throw down your javelins,” Bessas ordered, “swords and shields only.”

  The men of the front rank did so, casting aside all their spears and javelins and drawing their swords for close combat. I stood in the third line, with Bessas just behind me, and kissed the blade of Caledfwlch for luck. There were no walls to hide behind here, no supply of statues to rain down on the enemy. We would meet the enemy to their beards and make a final stand, here, where the defences of Rome were at their weakest.

  “I promised you hard service, Briton,” grunted Bessas, “see you make the shades of your ancestors proud. I wager your grandsire never took a backward step.”

  I was flattered he even remembered who my grandsire was, and tried to will away the cramp stealing across my limbs. I could feel my strength ebbing, just when I needed it most.

  We waited for what seemed an agonisingly long time. The Goths were taunting us, letting fear and doubt gnaw at our minds while they gathered their superior numbers for the final charge.

  “Come on, you bastards,” I heard a Hunnish spearman mutter in front of me, “let’s have it over with.”

  I was taller than most of the Easterners that made up our infantry, and able to peer over their heads at the Gothic banners outside the bulwark. One of them was huge, a great square crimson standard fringed with gold, and with a shock I realised it was the banner of their king. Vitiges himself was present outside the Praenestine Gate. I tried to picture him, and shuddered at the image my mind conjured up of a gigantic bearded savage, red to the armpits in Roman blood and wielding a battle-axe bigger than my head.

  With a final blast of horns and a mighty shout that split the night skies, they came. Their forward line of warriors leaped over the bulwark and galloped towards our line, roaring like enraged lions. Hundreds more flooded in their wake. Against this multitude our flimsy treble line of swords and shields seemed certain to break, smashed to bits and swept away, leaving Rome open to the vengeance of the Goths.

  They hit us like a steel fist into an exposed gut. The big Hun standing in front of me was shoved backwards, and the back of his helm smashed into my face, breaking my nose. Tears started to my eyes. I staggered, blinded and whimpering in pain, and gasped as my spine thumped against the brickwork of the inner wall.

  The Hun’s crushing weight pressed against me, and for a few terrible seconds I struggled to breathe. His rank stench was in my throat and nostrils – many of our Hunnish mercenaries refused to wash, thinking that bathing sapped their strength – and I flailed my arms uselessly, almost losing my grip on Caledfwlch. The triumphant yells of the Goths churned in my ears, deafening me. I was blind, robbed of my senses, crushed and defenceless, and about to die.

  The infernal howling
of the Goths was drowned by a pure, rising note, like the clarion call of angels. Some of the awful pressure on my body eased, and I was able to push the Hun away. He was a dead weight, his neck chopped almost clean in two by an axe. “Let’s have it done and over with,” he had begged, and God granted him his wish.

  The triumphant Gothic yells had turned to cries of fear and panic. Roman trumpets were sounding all over the field beyond the outer wall. Through a mist of pain I glimpsed the banners of Belisarius, illuminated in the fires lit by the Goths to aid their advance.

  I was already weeping, my tears mingling with the blood trickling from the ruin of my nose, but now I wept with joy and relief as well as pain.

  Belisarius had ordered Bessas to abandon the bulwark and retreat to the inner wall of the Vivarium, tempting the Goths to launch an all-out assault. Packed inside that narrow enclosure, they were taken unawares when Belisarius led his cavalry out of the neighbouring gates and fell upon them, flank and rear.

  Hemmed in against our infantry, scarcely able to turn or even lift their weapons, the Goths were butchered like sheep. Unknown to me, Belisarius had also ordered his men to fire the Gothic artillery, so the scene of his victory was lit by the hellish glow of burning war-machines.

  Bessas led a counter-attack, and ordered the archers and javelin-men on the walls above us to hurl their missiles into the hapless ranks of the enemy. Our infantry surged forward with renewed vigour, and I had space and leisure to collapse to my knees and throw up.

  Fortunately, Bessas was otherwise engaged, otherwise he might have witnessed me behaving in a manner that my warlike grandsire would certainly have disapproved of. After the spasms had passed, I wiped my mouth and remained on all fours, debating whether to feign death until the fighting was over. I had seen my limit of hard service, as Bessas might have termed it, and longed for rest and safety.

  What of my men? I had not seen them since the Goths attacked. The force of responsibility overwhelmed my selfish cowardice, and I climbed wearily to my feet, Caledfwlch weighing like lead in my hand.

  The enclosure was emptying now. Those Goths still alive had broken past our cavalry and were fleeing in all directions across the field, leaving great piles of their slain. Our men pursued them, or else wandered among the reeking carnage, finishing off the wounded and bending to inspect the dead for valuables. Gothic warriors, particularly the high-ranking ones, loved to decorate their bodies with gold, so there were rich pickings to be had.

  My Heruls were nowhere to be seen. I imagined they were happily chasing Goths on the plain, but still felt duty-bound to go in search of them. Sighing, I started to limp towards the outer wall, when a hand fell lightly on my shoulder.

  “Coel,” said Belisarius, “I seem to remember we met in similar circumstances, inside the Hippodrome after the Nika riots. Do you remember?”

  I turned, slowly, and dropped to one knee. “I remember, sir,” I replied, bowing my head.

  In truth, it was impossible to forget that ghastly, blood-soaked night when Belisarius’ Veterans and Huns had made chopped liver of the Nika rioters, most of whom were civilians. I had played my part in the butchery, and when the sun finally rose over the arena, piled high with the bodies of Roman citizens, Belisarius had congratulated me and taken my oath as a soldier.

  He placed his index finger under my chin and tilted my face up. I had rarely seen a man look so tired, but his mouth twitched into a smile as he studied me.

  “Your nose,” he said, “resembles a burst fruit. Now you have the proper appearance of a Roman officer.”

  He helped me to stand. “Come. My aides will take you to my quarters. You have done more than enough for one night. And keep that sword safe!”

  I allowed two of his junior officers to lead me away. Purple clouds drifted before my eyes, and I could feel my legs giving way under me. I was a man of straw, buckling in the wind, and blood flowed freely from my shoulder like a torrent of wine.

  Blood. Oceans of blood. It all seemed to leave my body at once, and I toppled forward into blissful nothing.

  17.

  “Hello, Coel,” said Antonina.

  The mists before my eyes cleared, and I found myself gazing at that lovely heart-shaped face, just inches from my own.

  At first I thought I was dreaming. Her red lips were close enough to kiss, and I felt an impulse to reach up and stroke her cheek. She was entrancing, as desirable as she was vile. I had to have her. I had to kill her.

  Reality intruded as pain flared in my shoulder. The half-healed wound was now sealed by a neat line of stitches, but it still stung as though hot knives were being pressed against my flesh.

  “Lie back,” she said in a warm, soothing voice, sweet as honey, deadly as poison, “you have slept for two days and nights. What injuries you have suffered on behalf of Rome. Your body is a network of scars.”

  I looked down, and found I was lying in a large, too-soft bed in a bedchamber fit for an empress. The walls were decorated with friezes and tapestries, and the white marble of the floor covered in costly Persian rugs.

  “What in God’s name…” I croaked, pulling the heavy bedclothes up to cover my naked body.

  “Are you doing here, in my care?” said Antonina, smiling as she finished the sentence for me.

  Her golden hair was bound up, and she was dressed like a respectable Roman matron in a white stola, a long, pleated woolen dress reaching to her ankles. The stola was sleeveless, exposing her shapely white arms.

  “You fainted,” she went on, frowning slightly as she inspected her stitching, “and so my husband turned you over to me. Give our fallen hero plenty of food and rest, he said, and also sent a doctor to look at your wounds. I dismissed the man. Like most military physicians, he was a butcher, and would have bled and purged you to death. I tell you, Coel, I have more knowledge of the art of healing in my little finger.”

  I eyed her with loathing. Two days and nights in the care of Antonina, one of my most dangerous enemies. She might have easily murdered me as I slept, and yet I still lived.

  Caledfwlch. Where was my sword? I looked around frantically, and spotted it standing on top of a neatly-folded pile of clean clothing on a chair.

  “Have no fear,” said Antonina, with the mannered little laugh, devoid of any true mirth, that I remembered from our brief encounter in Carthage, “I am no thief. Old Julius’s sword is your rightful property, everyone knows that.”

  I had nothing to say to her, and was determined to be up and out of her bedchamber as quickly as possible.

  “I have men outside,” she said as I made to throw back the bedclothes, “you can depart when I give you permission, not before.”

  Her light, playful voice had suddenly acquired an edge. I hesitated, watching her closely.

  What game was she playing? Antonina had tried to seduce me in Carthage, in a failed attempt to damn me in the eyes of her husband. She was hand-in-glove with Theodora, the Empress who had conspired to make me fight for my life in the Hippodrome.

  Her foul son, Photius, had tried to kill me at Membresa, almost certainly on her orders. I had little doubt that she was also behind the latest attempt on my life, beneath the aqueduct outside Napoli.

  “You are wondering,” she said complacently, “why I have chosen to spare your life, when I could have taken it at any time during the past two days.”

  I said nothing. The subtleties of this woman were beyond me, but I knew what she was capable of, and that any word that fell from my mouth would be deliberated twisted and misconstrued.

  She cocked her head to one side. “Lost your tongue? Heavens, Coel, you look like a frightened mouse. I do believe you are more afraid of me than any raging Gothic swordsman.”

  “You need not be afraid. Why should I wish to rub out our tough little Briton? I enjoy watching you too much. Holding onto that absurd sword like a baby with a rattle, forcing yourself to fight and play the hero, creeping around underground passages…always surrounded by death and dange
r, always alone, suspicious, scared, tossed about like a straw on the seas of fate.”

  This was too much. I felt compelled to speak. “You will get nothing from me, lady,” I said, sitting up, “so you may as well let me go, or call in your men to murder me. Just as you ordered your son to murder me at Membresa.”

  She pushed back a loose strand of hair. “Photius is a disappointment,” she replied, “though admittedly I have not been much of a mother to him. I was not born to be a parent. He was an accident. Perhaps I shouldn’t have told him that quite so often.”

  Notice how she avoided the issue. She made no effort to excuse or explain Photius’ attempt to kill me. Nor was I interested in listening to her lies.

  “I have some good news for you,” she said, “my husband was greatly impressed by your recent heroics in the defence of Rome. He means to promote you again. To centenar.”

  My head still felt as though it was stuffed with wool. I gaped stupidly at her, struggling to comprehend.

  “Your Heruls are all dead,” she added casually, “killed in the fighting by the Praenestine Gate. Some might question why Belisarius wishes to put an officer who wastes the lives of ten men in charge of a hundred, but of course I know nothing of soldiering.”

  “Dead?” I gasped. Antonina had completely wrong-footed me now. She was enjoying herself immensely, batting me back and forth in her paws, like a cat with a dazed mouse.

  “Yes, all quite dead. Don’t be too sad about it, Coel. They fought well, by all accounts, if unwisely. Of course they had no officer on hand to restrain them.”

  She gave a little shrug of her delectable shoulders. “Soldiers die, especially if they are Heruls. Those savages believe it a great dishonour to die anywhere save the battlefield.”

  I kindled with anger. “I know rather more about the customs of the Heruls than you, lady,” I said, “their deaths are on my conscience. Why do you taunt me with them? Is this how you derive your pleasures?”

  “What a bore you are, Coel,” she said, with a little yawn, “Theodora warned me that you are a bore. Your life could have been so different, so much easier and more rewarding, if only you had submitted to my friend’s desires.”