Justinian

TWENTY-FOUR

‘Know anything about this new king the Goths have just elected for themselves?’ Artabazus — commander-in-chief of the Field Army of Italy (an Armenian, as his olive complexion and delicate aquiline features hinted) — asked Bessas, his second-in command. The latter was an elderly Goth from Thrace, a veteran of many campaigns stretching back to Anastasius’ clashes with the Persians. The two men were seated in the commander’s pavilion near Faventia in Tuscia,* overlooking a smiling landscape — undulating hills clothed in forests of chestnut, valleys chequered with vineyards and olive groves. Around the pavilion the tents of the army stretched in orderly rows, the soldiers sleeping, cleaning kit, preparing supper, or, in the case of the younger ones, just skylarking.

‘Not much,’ grunted Bessas in reply, his battle-scarred old face framed by grizzled locks, worn long in the German fashion. ‘Except that he’s the nephew of Hildebad, the king the Goths chose after Belisarius left Italy eighteen months ago. Didn’t last long. Jealousy among the Gothic leaders, I heard, led to his assassination last year. Replaced by one Eraric, who wasn’t even a Goth, but a Rugian.’

‘And his reign was even shorter,’ observed Artabazus with a grin. ‘Murdered after five months. ‘That was when the Goths found out he was planning to cede their newly recreated kingdom to Justinian — in return for a fat pension and being allowed to settle in Constantinople as a patrician. Shades of Gelimer and Witigis. Anyway, what about this nephew of Hildebad?’

‘Young man, name of Totila. Scarcely out of his teens.’

‘This just gets better and better,’ chuckled Artabazus. ‘I’d give him even less time than Eraric. To a Goth, being ruled by an untried boy is only marginally better than being ruled by a woman. And that’s total anathema. You’ve only got to think of Amalasuntha and her poisonous offspring, Athalaric.’

‘In the case of Totila, I wouldn’t be too sure,’ mused Bessas. ‘They say he’s mature beyond his years; also he seems to have held some sort of command under his uncle. The Goths appear to think highly of him. And, what’s perhaps more worrying, so do many Romans, who have yet to be persuaded of the benefits of being back in the Empire. And who can blame them? What with Justinian’s army of tax-collectors hell-bent on making up for lost time, and our soldiers forced to turn to looting to supplement arrears of pay. If Totila succeeds in stamping his authority on his people, we could be in trouble. Both from the Goths and the Romans.’ The old warrior frowned and shook his head. ‘Whatever was Vitalius thinking about to let the Goths start up their kingship once again? Once you’ve beaten him, the one thing you don’t do with a German is give him a second chance. I should know — I’m German myself.’

‘Perhaps Vitalius wasn’t in charge long enough to stop the Goths regrouping,’ the other pointed out. ‘Or perhaps he thought that letting them elect their own King Log* would be enough to keep them quiet for the nonce. Our emperor’s crazy plan of switching around the top command hasn’t exactly helped. He was terrified, you know, that Belisarius would accept when the Goths offered to recognize him as Western emperor. Hence Justinian’s present policy of divide and rule regarding his generals. The man’s paranoid, afraid of his own shadow; you didn’t hear me say that, by the way. You yourself were appointed Magister Militum for a time, after Vitalius. Now it seems it’s my turn. Well, one thing I am determined to do before I’m phased out, is to nip this Gothic resurgence in the bud — before it has a chance to become a real threat.’

‘Totila’s army’s only ten miles north from here, according to the scouts’ report. You mean to take him on?’

‘I should say! A scratch force of only a few thousand Goths?’ Artabazus laughed scornfully. ‘He’s serving himself up to us on a plate. We should be able to bring him to battle tomorrow, when the Army of Italy will make short work of him. Then we can put an end to this nonsense of a renewed Gothic kingdom, once and for all.’

That night, Totila encamped his five thousand Goths — all that were brave (or desperate?) enough to follow him — at the head of a valley overlooking the Romans’ position.

‘At least three times our number,’ murmured Aligern, looking down at the distant rows of ‘butterflies’ glowing in the late sun — the eight-man leather tents the Romans carried on campaign. Aligern was an elder statesman, kinsman of the murdered Hildebad, and loyal supporter of that monarch’s nephew and successor. ‘It will take cunning as well as courage on our part, if we hope to have any chance of beating them.’ He glanced keenly at the tall, golden-haired young king standing beside him. ‘It may be Sire, that — for the present — discretion is the better part of valour. There would be no shame in withdrawing in order to build up our forces against a future, more evenly matched encounter. If we choose to fight them now, and are defeated — ’ Aligern shrugged, then added with a grim smile, ‘It would be the end of the Ostrogothic nation. Think well, Sire, before deciding.’

Cunning as well as courage, Totila repeated to himself. Courage — his men had that in overflowing measure. If bravery alone could win the day, victory was theirs. As with all Germans, every Gothic male was a warrior, schooled in the use of arms, nurtured on a tradition of heroic deeds and contempt for danger. But, again like all Germans, each Gothic warrior was eager for personal glory, and impatient of discipline. A trait that could have spelt disaster when, as his uncle’s swordbearer in his first command, he had taken Trabesium,* the only Roman-occupied fortification north of the Padus. He remembered when he had led his men against that mighty fortress on its rock two years ago. .

Perceiving some inner quality of self-belief or leadership in his nephew, Hildebad had let the boy take charge of the assault. Totila had found himself cajoling tough warriors two, or even three times his own age, into abandoning their desire to launch a head-on attack on the place — an action that would have proved suicidal against the town’s strong garrison and massive walls. Instead, with a blend of tact, humour, and firmness, he had persuaded them to accept an alternative manoeuvre — ascending, under cover of night, a steep path leading to an unguarded postern gate. The enterprise called for courage (clearly, the garrison thought the postern not worth the trouble of defending, thanks to its being sited above a precipitous ascent), teamwork, and, the hardest thing of all to instil in Germans — discipline. In addressing his men, Totila discovered that he had that most precious of gifts a leader can possess — charisma, the quality that makes men want to follow another, someone who can, by enthusiasm and example, unite his followers into a band of brothers sharing a common goal.

The operation had proceeded without a hitch, with Trabesium falling to the Goths.

‘I have decided, Aligern,’ Totila replied to his senior lieutenant. ‘Tomorrow, we must fight them. If we retreat now, our men will lose heart and begin to disperse. Any reputation I possess would soon be lost, and I’d probably end up sharing the same fate as my uncle or Eraric. Besides, I don’t believe the odds against us are as great as they might seem. The Army of Italy certainly outnumbers us — greatly so. But what of its quality? Belisarius has taken the cream of his troops to the east, leaving mainly mercenary units behind. Men whose only motive is gain, and who value their hides far above whatever cause they fight for. A hundred and sixty years ago, our ancestors defeated a vastly superior Roman army at Adrianople. Let us emulate their tactics.’

‘Which were?’ Aligern’s tone sounded somewhat less pessimistic than before.

‘Essentially, the following. Instead of the usual wild charge, the Goths — under their leader, Fritigern — formed a defensive line against the Romans, who advanced in close order. A suprise cavalry attack by the Goths smashed into the Roman left wing, causing confusion and disorder with men being pushed back into each other, so that they were unable to manoeuvre. The Gothic line now advanced against the Roman ranks, jamming them even more closely together. Result — slaughter, then rout. So, what we must do is this. .’

‘Archers,’ groaned Aligern to Totila the following morning, as a long line of unarmoured men formed up in front of the Roman army. In what seemed almost a casual, unconcerned manner, they advanced in open order up the valley towards the Gothic line — a double row of spearmen forming a wall of shields flanked by woods, across the valley’s head. Clad in undyed linen tunics with indigo government roundels at hip and shoulder, bows and quivers slung carelessly on backs, the Roman archers looked curiously unthreatening. Yet both Gothic leaders knew just how devastating and demoralizing arrow-fire could prove, unless countered effectively.

‘Once that lot starts shooting, it’s going to take all your authority to stop our fellows from going after them,’ observed Aligern. ‘Which, of course, is what the Romans hope we’ll do.’

‘They must just stand and take it. As long as the men stay behind their shields, they’ll be all right — barring a few inevitable casualties; we must accept that. So long as we don’t react, they’ll call off their archers soon enough.’

So long as we don’t react, the young king repeated to himself. Everything depended on the Goths maintaining discipline, something that ran counter to their nature, but whose importance he had striven with every fibre to make them understand. While the shield-wall stayed intact, the enemy would be unable, on a narrow front, to bring his advantage of superior numbers to bear. Then, provided we can hold him. .

A hundred paces in front of the Goths’ formation, the archers halted then formed up in an extended line. Unhurriedly, they strung their bows — powerful, recurved, composite affairs of laminated wood and horn — nocked arrows, raised their shooting-arms to a steep angle, and drew the shafts to an anchor-point at the chin. Suddenly, they no longer looked innocuous, but deadly.

With a soft, whirring sound a flight of arrows arced towards the Gothic line, racing its speeding shadow on the ground to strike the wall of shields with a ripple of thuds. One or two andbahtos — retainers — cried out in pain or slumped to the ground; the great majority remained unharmed. After enduring several volleys however, the Goths began to grow restive, their line showing the first signs of losing cohesion, as individual warriors fought their instinct to rush forward and close with these cowards who dared fight only from a distance. Sensing the danger, Totila, golden hair swinging about his shoulders, strode along the line urging restraint, an arrow clanging off his Spangenhelm, while two others smacked into his shield. His words had the desired effect; everywhere, the shield-wall firmed and straightened.

Except at one point near the centre. Here, a group of Goths rushed forward. With the incline in their favour, they could expect to catch their tormentors before the archers could run back to the protection of their army. Instead there came a blur of movement in the Roman ranks, which opened to allow passage for a cloud of horsemen. Though only light cavalry, they were more than capable of dealing with an isolated group of the enemy.* Galloping through the scattering archers they were among the Goths in a flash, thrusting and slashing with their long spathae till not a man remained alive. It was a chilling, and salutary, object-lesson. Thereafter, no one in the shield-wall needed further encouragement to stay in line.

A trumpet sounded, recalling the archers and the horse. Now the Roman infantry rolled forward — rank upon rank of mailed soldiers, moving as one like some grim machine, or monster clad in iron scales. With a deafening clash the two lines came together, when began a deadly shoving-match, with victory destined for the side that did not break. The Goths — big fair-haired men — had the slope in their favour, while the woods at either end of their line meant that they could not be outflanked. Against this, their formation was only two deep compared with the Romans’ six; most were unarmoured, relying for protection solely on their oval wooden shields. Gradually, the greater weight of the Roman line began to tell; slowly, fighting stubbornly every yard of the way, the Goths found themselves being forced back.

Then, just when it seemed that a Roman victory was inevitable, the surprise that Totila had planned all along was sprung. Away to the flank, concealed from view until the moment it was needed, was the cream of Totila’s force — a body of heavy lancers, several hundred strong, armoured and equipped from the armoury of Trabesium, after that city’s capture. Now, thundering up the valley from its mouth they smashed into the Romans from behind, inflicting massive carnage and causing widespread confusion. Desperately pushing forward to escape those terrible lance-points, the rear ranks caused the ones in front to become jammed together. Soon the whole army had become a close-packed, struggling mass, in which men were unable to lift their weapons, or, losing their footing, were trodden underfoot to suffocate. In such a situation panic spreads like wildfire, and this scenario was no exception. With shocking suddenness, the Roman army broke and fled, not stopping in their flight until reaching safety behind the strong walls of Faventia.

For the Goths it was a famous victory.* News of it spread rapidly; men flocked to join Totila’s standard and within days his army had quadrupled in strength. Badly mauled though still intact, the Roman army withdrew south towards Florentia,** via the long Mugello valley. Here, Totila ambushed them, winning a second — and decisive — victory. Too distracted and demoralized to send out scouts, strung out in a straggling column along the length of the defile, the Romans fell easy prey to the Goths charging down upon them from the heights. Having sustained serious losses, the Roman army now broke up into separate sections (each commanded by a different general), which proceeded to take refuge in the fortresses of central Italy. Here, apprehensive and rudderless, they remained bottled up to lick their wounds.

Meanwhile, nothing less than a social revolution was sweeping the peninsula. All over Italy, those who had suffered the consequences of Justinian’s ‘liberation’: the merchants, the urban middle classes, and the peasants — ground between the upper and nether millstones of Alexander ‘the Scissors’ ruthless tax machine, and the casual plundering of East Roman troops — hailed Totila as a saviour. Like a second Spartacus, the young monarch divided up the great estates among the tenants, sweeping away crippling rents and corvees; freeing the slaves, who willingly enrolled in his army; cleansing the civil service of the corrupt and greedy officials who had run the administration very much with an eye to their own profit, and staffing it instead with humble Romans. Within a few short months, apart from Rome, Ravenna, and a few towns on the coast or in the central Apennines, the whole of Italy had fallen to the Goths. Only the senatorial class held out against Totila. To these, the young ‘barbarian’ continued to extend an olive branch (for he hoped eventually to bring them round), treating with kindness and respect all aristocrats who fell into his hands. Meanwhile the expulsion of landlords, freeing of slaves and ending of abuses went on apace, with ordinary Romans everywhere enthusiastically supporting their charismatic new champion.

Shock and consternation clubbed Justinian when he received the news of what was happening in Italy. His Grand Plan, it seemed, was fast unravelling; perhaps, he conceded to himself, it had been a mistake to alternate the command among his generals. Radical steps must be taken to stop the rot before it was too late. Belisarius, unfortunately, could not be spared, what with a newly aggressive Persia under Khusro threatening the eastern frontier. His generals in Italy, even tough old veterans like Bessas, had proved a sorely disappointing lot. None of them, it appeared, was capable of taking on this Totila. But perhaps there was one man, presently here in Constantinople, who might be equal to the task — a certain Maximinus.

Maximinus, a senator and courtier, had recently come to the emperor’s attention by the sound advice he had offered to officials at the Treasury — advice which had helped to fill the void in fiscal policy resulting from the departure of John of Cappadocia. Wit, poet, man of culture and sophistication, to say nothing of his administrative skills, this second Petronius Arbiter possessed the sort of over-arching intelligence that perhaps made him the ideal person to tackle the Hydra-headed crisis that had blown up in Italy. The more he thought about it, the more Justinian convinced himself that Maximimus was the man to send. Granted, he lacked military experience, but perhaps, given the recent woeful performance of the generals, that might even be an advantage; Maximinus would be coming to the job with a fresh, objective outlook, and no baggage.

But before The Prodigy could be dispatched to Italy, calamity — on a scale unprecedented in its reach and terror — struck the Empire’s eastern provinces. .

* Faenza in Tuscany.

* A king who is merely a figurehead. (See Aesop’s Fables.)

* Treviso.

* Belisarius had taken the heavy cavalry with him to the east, leaving behind only light horse — suitable for scouting or skirmishing, but useless against enemy en masse.

* The Battle of Faventia/Faenza was fought in the spring of 542.

** Florence.