Siege of Rome

by David Pilling

  He was entitled to a trial, just as I was. While Bessas and Troglita held Constantine down, Antonina took her husband to one side and spoke urgently to him. I cast a hopeless glance at Procopius, who looked solemn and gave a little shake of his head, as if warning me not to do or say anything unwise.

  When Antonina had finished, Belisarius stood still and silent for a moment, staring bleakly at the floor. Then he raised his hand and summoned two of his guards. They were half-hidden in the shadows to the rear of the hall, and I had failed to see them until now.

  “Take that man to a side-room,” he said, pointing at Constantine, “and strangle him.”

  21.

  Constantine’s death was my salvation. Unwilling to risk any more scandal, Belisarius refused to credit the charges against me, or to listen to any more pleas from Photius and Presidius. He dismissed us all, and gave orders that for the time being I should stay in Procopius’ quarters, with a guard on the door. The golden daggers were restored to Presidius, who had never really lost them, and Caledfwlch to my keeping.

  The execution without trial of Constantine cast a long shadow over Belisarius’ reputation. All the suspicions that he was a pawn of his wife, easily manipulated by her – and through her, by the Empress – were confirmed, and for a time he lost the respect of his captains. Only his record of virtually unbroken military success, and his enduring popularity among the men, saved him from being ousted. Bessas, for one, never quite held Belisarius in the same high regard again, though he continued to serve under him.

  Ridden with guilt, for I knew that my failure to speak at the right time had helped to damn Constantine, I was escorted to Procopius’s quarters and given a bed in an antechamber.

  There I remained for three days, sweating on my fate. Procopius was absent for most of the time, being required to attend on Belisarius. When he returned, usually late at night, he was tired but polite enough, though the old intimacy that had existed between us was gone. I had become a dangerous man to know, too dangerous even for him, and the shadow of the noose hung over my head.

  On the third evening of my confinement Procopius returned with four of Belisarius’ guards at his back, and summoned me to the general’s presence.

  “What is to become of me?” I asked, rising. Procopius looked grim, and the guards regarded me with hostile eyes, as though I was responsible for their master’s shame.

  “You will find out soon enough,” the secretary replied curtly.

  We trooped down the shadowy corridor to Belisarius’ own bedchamber, which had six guards on the door instead of the usual two. Evidently he felt threatened, and feared that erstwhile comrades might make an attempt on his life. I gave a wry smile. Now Belisarius knew how I felt all the time.

  We entered to find him in his nightgown and perched in a window seat overlooking the northern walls of Rome. Hundreds of lights glimmered in the darkness beyond, the campfires of the Gothic army.

  He turned from his vigil to regard us somberly, hands folded behind his back, like a disapproving schoolmaster.

  “My wife is not here,” he said without greeting or preamble, “I have decided to send her to Naples, and she and her ladies are preparing for the journey. She will be safer there, and can wait out the rest of the war in peace.”

  “You will be glad of that,” he said, nodding at me, “I know now that Antonina is no friend of yours. It pains me to discover the enmity between my wife and one of my best officers. Despite that, you are also going to Naples.”

  I stood silent, waiting patiently for an explanation. Unless he had run mad, presumably he did not mean to send myself and Antonina off together.

  Belisarius turned back to the latticed window. “Look at that,” he murmured, indicating the Gothic fires, “they are inexhaustible. No matter how many of the barbarians we kill, fresh men spring up from the earth to replace them. All the while our numbers dwindle, and our supplies run low. Did you know the citizens have started to eat grass, Coel?”

  The question startled me. “I had heard something, sir,” I replied unsteadily, “but witnessed nothing of the sort.”

  “It is true,” he said, nodding sadly, “the poor are reduced to eating herbs and grasses, and eating the flesh of mules. The meat is tainted, since the animals died of disease, and now a pestilence is sweeping through the poor quarters of Rome. I have ordered fresh corn to be distributed, but there isn’t enough to feed all. My physicians do what they can, but nothing can stop the sickness from spreading.”

  He ran his hands down his bearded cheeks. “God forgive us. What misery and destruction we have brought to this city. All for some vain, foolish dream of restoring the glory of the Western Empire. Glory! What glory? We have brought nothing but death. No, do not absolve your guilt by blaming mere soldiers, who must follow orders and do their duty. I, Belisarius, have brought nothing but death. Yet I must perform my own duty, and see the game through to the end.”

  I had never heard Belisarius speak his heart so honestly. He seemed to have forgotten our presence, and looked up with a start when Procopius gave a discreet little cough.

  “Coel,” said Belisarius, “our poor, persecuted Briton. You must have often cursed the day your mother fled your homeland and came halfway across the world to find refuge in Constantinople. Some refuge. It is a miracle you are still alive, but I must ask you to perform another duty. You will leave Rome, tonight, in the company of Procopius, and make your way through the Gothic lines. Once you reach Naples, you will send out orders for our garrisons scattered about Campania to send part of their men to muster at the city.”

  “We must have reinforcements,” he said, leaning forward to stare intently at me, “if the Emperor sends none, then I have no choice but to weaken our garrisons elsewhere. You will handle the military aspect of the mission. Procopius is tasked with devising some way of getting provisions into the city from the south. Our stores of corn will soon be expended. Without fresh supplies, the Romans may soon revert to even older practices than the worship of pagan gods, and start eating each other.”

  The quest was a daunting one, with much risk involved, but at least the shadow of execution had lifted. Whether Belisarius wanted me out of the city just to perform a useful service, or because my presence was an embarrassment to him, I could not be certain. Whatever his motives, I was grateful to go.

  I had one question. “What of Photius, sir? Is he to accompany his mother to Naples?”

  Belisarius gazed at me for a full minute before replying. “No. He stays here.”

  Where I can keep my eye on him, he might have added, but I didn’t press the issue. Antonina’s scheming son would remain stranded in Rome, where I sincerely hoped he might catch a Gothic arrow in his throat before too much longer. Meanwhile I was being given an opportunity to escape well beyond his reach.

  Procopius and I, along with six Huns as an escort, left the city soon after midnight via the gate of Saint Paul. This gate was located at the beginning of the road that connected Rome to Ostia, the fortified coastal town that the Goths had seized shortly after the beginning of the siege.

  It was a black, moonless night, and we departed like thieves, clad in dark cloaks and mantles and with mufflers wrapped around our horses’ hoofs.

  At first we led the beasts on foot, wishing to spare them in case we needed to escape pursuit later. The lights of the Gothic camp were at their fewest here, since they already held Ostia and there was no possible escape for us in that direction.

  Besides the Huns, Belisarius had also given us a scout, a native of Rome, to guide our way. We had no lanterns, for that would have alerted the Gothic pickets, but our guide seemed able to find his way in the dark.

  I recall he somewhat resembled a sniffer hound, being short and bow-legged, and with a raddled, jowly, somewhat collapsed face. He said little, and responded to Procopius’s frantically whispered questions with curt grunts.

  Procopius was understandably frightened, even though he had some experience in this
kind of secret work. The Goths and their allies were all around us, and it seemed an impossible task to pick a safe path through their teeming lines.

  The guide led us half a mile beyond the gate, and then abruptly swung south, straight towards the fortified Gothic camp established to keep watch over the Appian Way. Beyond the camp lay the dark mass of the broken aqueducts that Vitiges had ordered repaired and filled with soldiers.

  “Be ready to ride,” was all the guide would say. Procopius gave up trying to get anything more out of him, and the eight of us followed in silence.

  The walls of Rome were to our right, illuminated by the glow of torches and braziers on the walls. I wondered if the more sharp-eyed of our sentries might see us, and prayed fervently they wouldn’t call out a challenge or raise the alarm, thinking we were a band of Goths trying to sneak into the city.

  At any moment I dreaded encountering some of the mounted scouts that scoured the countryside around Rome. It was unlikely that any would be abroad at such an hour, but my fears multiplied as we plodded over the flat, open ground west of Rome. The darkness was our friend, but still I perspired freely, imagining a sudden shower of arrows and javelins, followed by hordes of Gothic pony-soldiers.

  Incredibly, our little Italian guide led us safely through the enemy outposts. He knew the lay of the land intimately, and led us on clever detours, using whatever scraps of cover were available and steering clear of the scattered watch-fires.

  I like to think we moved swiftly and silently, like ghosts, and we did make all speed, but were also aided by the Gothic habit of drinking themselves into a stupor. Confident after their recent victory, convinced that the Romans would not dare attempt another sally, their rough discipline had almost fallen away completely. We crept past groups of bearded soldiers singing in loud, drunken voices and downing cup after cup of their glutinous ale, when they should have been keeping watch.

  We passed almost directly under the timber stockade of their camp. The sentries must have been blind, or every bit as drunk as their comrades, and we crept past unchallenged.

  “The barbarians have grown complacent,” whispered Procopius, “Belisarius might ride out now, and slaughter them as they lie swine-drunk beside their fires.”

  Then we came to the aqueducts. The Goths had walled up the lower arches where they met, between the Latin and Appian Ways, and stationed the majority of their garrison there. Our guide took us west, until our feet were treading the smooth, ancient flagstones of the Appian Way. In their arrogance the Goths had thought to place few pickets here, so far from Rome and deep inside their own lines.

  Only once did we encounter danger. A single watch-fire burned under the crumbling ruins of an arch at the extreme western end of one of the aqueducts, warming the bones of a trio of Gothic spearmen.

  They were huddled up miserably against the cold, and seemed indifferent to anything except staying close to the guttering fire. We tried to pass by too quickly, and one of them tipped up his helmet and called out a challenge.

  Procopius had studied the Gothic tongue, and barked a response. The Goth didn’t seem satisfied. He rose to a sitting position, peering at us suspiciously as he clutched his spear.

  “Mount,” hissed our guide. I already had one leg hooked over the saddle, and within seconds we were forcing our horses into a gallop along the highway. We kept them at a fast pace until the rugged silhouette of the aqueducts were a distant line on the horizon. There was no pursuit: either the sentry failed to raise the alarm, or his superiors failed to heed him.

  Naples was almost two days’ ride away. We covered a portion of the distance that night, and rested at dawn, sinking to sleep inside a little grove just as the sun broke cover in the east.

  We were inside the borders of Campania, and practically clear of danger, for the Goths had concentrated their forces around Rome and in the north of Italy. Thanks to the earlier conquests of Belisarius, Campania was imperial territory, and would remain so unless Rome fell and Vitiges could push his armies south.

  Dusk of the second days’ ride brought us within sight of the walls of Naples again, and the blue sparking waters of the bay.

  Procopius was the first to spur his horse onto a ridge overlooking the city. He reined in and shaded his eyes, looking out to sea, and gave an excited yelp.

  “Coel!” he shouted, beckoning at me. I rode up to join him, and looked down at the glorious spread of the city, white walls shining in the late afternoon sun, and the broad waters of the ocean beyond.

  The sea was full of ships, bobbing at anchor in the bay. Transports, galleys and dromons, all with imperial flags fluttering from their mast-heads.

  Every ship was packed with soldiers. The Emperor had not forgotten us after all, and sent thousands of troops to our aid.

  END.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The purpose of Belisarius’ first Italian campaign was to destroy the Ostrogothic kingdom and restore Italy to the Roman Empire. It lasted five years, a considerable length of time, which was why I decided to cut Coel’s retelling of the campaign in half. The third and final installment of his memoirs will cover the second part of the war, and the final parting of ways between Coel and the famous Roman general.

  Students of Roman history will notice that Coel’s narrative telescopes and in some cases distorts events: for instance, the trial and unjust execution of Constantine in reality took place some time after the events described, and in different circumstances. For this and any other mistakes I can only beg the reader’s indulgence, and ask them not to judge too harshly the somewhat distorted memories of an old soldier.