Justinian

PROLOGUE

‘Elephants, sir!’ gasped the scout, reining in his lathered mount before the general. ‘Scores of the brutes. And they’ve got cataphracts as well — hundreds of them, in addition to vast contingents of infantry.’

‘Calm down, lad,’ said Roderic gently. ‘Nothing to panic about; Romans’ll see off elephants and armoured cavalry every time. Now — just the facts please. Location? Line of march? Numbers?’

Looking slightly shamefaced, the scout dismounted and stood to attention, helmet tucked under arm. ‘The Persians are several miles this side of the Euphrates, sir, heading our way,’ he reported in more sober tones. ‘About twenty thousand altogether, I’d say.’

‘Thank you, soldier; you did well. Report to the cook-house and ask for a hot meal — my orders.’ Roderic grinned and clapped the young man on the shoulder. ‘But first see that your horse gets a rub-down and feed. Dismiss.’

‘Of course, sir. Thank you, sir.’ Saluting smartly, the scout turned and walked away, leading his horse; he now looked and sounded relaxed and reassured, in contrast to his earlier state of excited apprehension.

Leaving the agora — the town square — Roderic returned to his quarters in the citadel of Palmyra, the strategically important frontier city on the interface between the empires of East Rome and Persia. He’d done his best, he reflected, to prevent that young scout from spreading alarm and despondency among his fellow soldiers. But in truth, he acknowledged to himself, the situation looked bad. At present, all the imperial field armies had been moved north, engaged in suppressing yet another insurrection by the Isaurians — a wild tribal people inhabiting a mountainous region of Anatolia. Roderic had been left with a scratch force of limitanei — second-rate frontier troops, to guard the eastern border, pending the absence in the north of his superior, the Magister Militum per Orientem. In normal circumstances, this role would have amounted to no more than a routine policing assignment; officially, Rome and Persia were at peace. But the reigning King of Kings, Kavad, was known to be under the influence of his top general, Tamshapur, a maverick commander with dangerously expansionist ideas. Tamshapur was suspected of harbouring dreams of seizing East Rome’s Diocese of Oriens, whose territory, back in the days before Alexander, had once formed part of the empire of the Peacock Throne. The scout’s report suggested that these suspicions were well founded: that Tamshapur, taking advantage of the fact that Rome’s eastern frontier was for the time being virtually undefended, had decided that here was a golden opportunity to launch an attack and make his dreams reality.

Pacing the floor of his spartanly furnished tablinum or study, now converted to a command centre, Roderic tried to formulate a plan to counter this appalling threat. He had two choices: to remain inside Palmyra, or engage the enemy. Should he decide on the former, he could probably hold out, for a time anyway, against any siege that Tamshapur (for it was almost certainly he who commanded the approaching army) might decide to mount. Palmyra’s walls were strong; but even if they fell, the garrison could then retreat to the virtually impregnable citadel to await eventual relief by a Roman field army. The trouble with that choice was that it would allow Tamshapur to take over the diocese unchallenged, leaving Palmyra isolated within enemy-occupied territory — territory which Rome might, quite conceivably, find itself unable to recover. The other alternative was to take on the Persians — a David and Goliath stance if ever there was, and one that must surely end in annihilation for his tiny force, Roderic reflected gloomily. Clearly, in this situation two heads would be better than one. He would pick the brains of Victor, his trusty vicarius or second-in-command; his opinions were always worth listening to.

Victor Marcellinus — great-grandson of the famous soldier-turned-historian, Ammianus Marcellinus, and vicarius of the Numerus Euphratensis, strode along Palmyra’s Great Colonnade — the magnificent mile-long avenue flanked by Corinthian columns which connected the former Royal Palace (now pressed into service as barracks) with the agora and the citadel. As, responding to a summons from his commanding officer, Victor made his way towards the citadel, he reflected on Palmyra’s chequered history. In past centuries the place had been the capital of an independent city-state, handling most of the trade between the Roman Empire in the west, and Persia, India, and China, in the east — successfully playing off Rome against Persia, while somehow managing to remain friends with both. Then, a little over two hundred years ago, Palmyra’s queen — a formidable lady called Zenobia, taking advantage of a succession crisis in Rome, had invaded Syria and Egypt, both Roman possessions. This proved to be a serious mistake. A strong Roman emperor, Aurelian, arose, who, after restoring stability at home, descended on Palmyra with several legions, crushed the forces of the upstart queen, and integrated the place fully into the Roman Empire. However, though no longer independent, Palmyra — thanks to its being the focal point of key trade routes and its proximity to the Persian border — remained of vital economic and strategic importance. Whoever controlled Palmyra held the balance of power between Persia and Rome.

Returning the salutes of soldiers that he passed, Victor sensed from their demeanour that a mood of excitement mingled with foreboding was spreading throughout the Numerus Euphratensis. The frontier unit was largely made up of raw recruits, its seasoned veterans having been drafted into the field army of the Diocese of Oriens, posted north as a result of the Isaurian crisis. Wryly acknowledging to himself that officers were usually the last to know about the origins of army rumours, Victor wondered what could be the cause of the strange mood.

‘Seems we’re between Scylla and Charybdis, sir,’ commented Victor, when Roderic had apprised him of the situation.

‘Silla and Caribs?’ The general stared at his vicarius with a puzzled frown.

‘Sorry, sir,’ apologized Victor, mentally kicking himself for his lapse. It was easy to forget that, unlike the vast majority of East Romans — heirs to a culture rooted in Homer and Greek mythology — classical allusions would be lost on Roderic, a Goth from the remote backwoods province of Dardania. He reminded himself of Roderic’s background.

Despite the migration to the West of the two great branches of the Gothic people — the Visigoths and the Ostrogoths — pockets of the tribe remained inside the Roman Empire (now consisting only of its surviving Eastern half): a tolerated minority, technically Roman citizens, but both resented and despised by the host nation. Following his arrival in Constantinople, the young barbarian had climbed the slippery pole of military promotion, ignoring racial slurs and put-downs by ‘proper Romans’, to rise, through sheer courage, perseverance, and aptitude, to the position of a respected general in the finest army in the world.

Victor regarded his commander’s homely face, fringed by a stubbly beard (very un-Roman) and topped by a thatch of straw-coloured hair, with mingled affection and concern. Unless Roderic could come up with a miraculous plan to counter Tamshapur’s move, then this year of the consul Paulus* (no Western candidate this year) could well see the end, not only of the general’s career, but in all likelihood of his life as well — consequences that applied in equal measure to both of them, Victor suddenly realized with a sense of chill foreboding.

‘In legend, sir,’ explained Victor, in response to the general’s query, ‘Scylla and Charybdis were sea-monsters, waiting either side of the Straits of Messina to drown unwary sailors. So the expression, “between Scylla and Charybdis” means — ’

‘- between a rock and a hard place,’ sighed Roderic. ‘Well, why the hell didn’t you say so?’ He shook his shaggy head and grinned ruefully. ‘You Romans — honestly. Now, about our Persian friend; any ideas? In plain Greek, if you don’t mind.’

‘He must be stopped, sir — if that’s at all possible. If we just sit tight in Palmyra, he’ll overrun the whole diocese. Our field armies in the north couldn’t possibly get here in time to intervene.’

‘My own thoughts precisely. Dispatch riders are already on their way to Constantinople and Isauria: a futile gesture, I fear. Any relieving force would arrive to find a Persian fait accompli.’ The general rose and began to pace the chamber, his brows furrowed in concentration. ‘On the face of it, Victor, for the Numerus Euphratensis to square up to Tamshapur seems like a recipe for suicide.’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘But we have to try.’

‘Things may not be quite as bad as they look, sir,’ said Victor. ‘Elephants and cataphracts apart, Tamshapur’s obvious apparent advantage is enormous superiority in numbers. Now, if that could somehow be made to work against him. . It’s been done before: Alexander against Darius at Issus, Hannibal against Varro at Cannae, and, in more recent times, Fritigern’s Goths against our own troops at Adrianople. They all faced overwhelming odds, in situations which they managed to turn to their own advantage.’

‘We’d have to force them to fight on a narrow front,’ mused Roderic. ‘That way, they could only use a fraction of their strength at one time. It’s those elephants and cataphracts I’m most worried about. Especially elephants. Roman soldiers have always been terrified by the things, apparently. I’ve never encountered them myself, however; the Persians seem largely to have abandoned their use as being old-fashioned. Until now, that is. Help me out here, Victor; I’m sure your eminent ancestor, the great Ammianus, has something to say on the subject.’

‘Plenty, sir; unfortunately none of it of much use to us. In his account of Emperor Julian’s Persian campaign, he describes their war-elephants in, frankly, tedious detail. He appears to have been both fascinated and appalled by them. Horses don’t like their smell; as a cavalry officer, that would have bothered him. Maddeningly, he doesn’t explain how our troops dealt with them. Like a lot of historians, he skimps on tactical details as being somehow unworthy in the context of serious literary composition. Arrian, however, has a tip that could be useful; he tells how Alexander had spiked boards laid in the path of elephants. Their weak point is their feet — tender soles, you see.’

Noting the sudden look of distaste on the other’s face, Victor pressed on hurriedly. ‘But that could backfire. Scipio’s tactics against Hannibal at Zama are probably more helpful.’ (Despite Roderic’s carefully cultivated image of the hard, unsentimental soldier, Victor had long suspected that his commander had a softer side. Witness the general’s reluctance to expose the men under his command to unnecessary suffering or danger — a consideration that extended also to cavalry mounts and beasts of burden. Misinterpreted, such an attitude could incur a risk; an officer suspected of fastidium — squeamishness, could suddenly find his career going nowhere. Hence Roderic’s concern to maintain a persona of iron toughness.) ‘According to Polybius, sir,’ Victor continued, ‘when Hannibal gave the order for his elephants to charge. .

‘Eminence — the Romans have come out of Palmyra,’ announced the scout, kneeling before Tamshapur. ‘Two thousand at the most, drawn up in battle array not five miles distant. We caught one of their outriders.’ And he pointed to a captive Roman pinioned between two Persian soldiers.

This was the best possible news, gloated Tamshapur, dismissing the man. After dealing with the Romans’ puny force (the prisoner could prove useful here), he would occupy Palmyra, whose citizens, learning of the garrison’s fate, would scarcely dare to close the gates against the Persian host. With Palmyra secure and no one to oppose him, the whole Diocese of Oriens from the Euphrates to the Red Sea would fall into his hands like a ripe plum. And after Oriens — Egypt? The name of Tamshapur would then be forever remembered in the annals, as the commander who restored to Persia the lands filched centuries before by Alexander and since annexed by Rome. Filled with a sense of euphoric anticipation, Tamshapur gave the order for the army to advance.

When a distant line of dust-clouds signalled the Persian approach, the Numerus Euphratensis withdrew to the position which Roderic and Victor had reconnoitred a few days earlier. This was a long defile, with towering walls of red sandstone — open-ended, wide at the mouth, narrowing in the centre to a neck just broad enough to be spanned by three ranks of soldiers — a disposition which accounted for the unit’s entire strength, barring archers and a small force of cavalry, both stationed elsewhere.

Carrying oval shields of laminated wood and wearing scale-armour hauberks and traditional Attic helmets, the pedites or foot-soldiers waited, stiff with apprehension, their young faces pale and set with the effort of concealing their fear. In an elaborate show of nonchalance, their officers, resplendent in muscle cuirasses, lounged atop their horses or strolled among the men, smiling and murmuring encouragement. A little to the fore, the commander and his vicarius sat astride their mounts. The pedites’ equipment was standard regulation issue — with one startling exception. Instead of the normal seven-foot spear, each infantryman held an immensely long pike measuring fully twenty feet.

‘Remind you of anything, sir?’ Victor asked the general in breezy tones, in an attempt to break the tension, building as the minutes bled away. He waved towards the silent ranks behind them.

‘Should it?’

‘The three hundred Spartans at Thermopylae, sir — surely you’ve heard of them?’

‘You’re forgetting, Victor — your commanding officer is just an ignorant barbarian. Enlighten me.’

‘Well, sir, in order to buy time for the main Greek army to come up, an advance force of three hundred Spartans under their king, Leonidas, volunteered to block a narrow pass against an invading Persian army, numbering three hundred thousand. Odds of a thousand to one.’ He grinned. ‘With us, they’re only ten to one; should be a walkover.’

‘What happened to those Spartans?’

‘Another time, sir — listen!’

A faint susurration, like wind in a cornfield, could just be heard in the distance. This grew steadily to a pattering, then to a muted, rumbling roar. While the van of their army was yet invisible, a small advance party of Persian infantry preceded by a mounted herald came into sight round a bend in the canyon, some five hundred yards ahead. The foremost soldiers held aloft the Drafsh-i-Kavyan — the huge gold and silver Sassanian royal flag, stretched on crossed timbers. The herald cantered up, drawing rein before Roderic and Victor. Unfurling a scroll, he proceeded to read (in passable Greek) its contents in loud and contemptuous tones: ‘Tamshapur — most noble and illustrious of all the servants of the King of Kings, Protector of the Sacred Flame, and terror to all enemies of the Empire of Iran, out of the great goodness of his heart deigns to show mercy to the Romans who, in their deluded obduracy, have dared to come out in arms against him. Lay down your weapons as a token of surrender, and your lives will be spared. What answer shall I take back to the all-merciful, the ever-victorious Tamshapur?’

‘You may tell your master this,’ responded Roderic in mild tones. ‘Provided he undertakes to remove himself and his troops from the Diocese of Oriens and return forthwith beyond the Euphrates, then Rome is prepared, this once, to overlook such unwarranted and unprovoked invasion of her territory. If not, we will find ourselves compelled to deal with him severely.’

For a few moments, the herald stared at Roderic. Then, finding his voice, he snarled, ‘On your head be it, Roman. Learn then, the fate of any of your men unlucky enough to survive the coming battle — a reckoning you will have brought upon yourselves.’ And, wheeling his mount, he spurred back to his party.

Carried by several soldiers, a large wooden cross, to which was bound the Roman prisoner taken earlier, was swiftly erected before the Persian group, its base slotting into a massive timber support. Bundless of brush-wood were piled around the shaft, and — before any of the horrified Romans could intervene, ignited. Laughing, the Persians withdrew, while Roderic, Victor, and a detachment of his comrades raced to rescue the victim. Too late. A roaring column of fire shot upwards, enveloping the prisoner, who shrieked and writhed against his bonds — before a well-aimed arrow mercifully cut short his agony. As the Romans returned to their position, Victor noted that fury and grim determination had replaced earlier expressions of apprehension on the men’s faces. ‘If that was supposed to be an object lesson intended to intimidate us,’ he observed to Roderic, ‘I rather think it may have backfired.’

The ground began to tremble as, round the bend in the defile, the Persian van appeared, fronted by a dense mass of elephants — enormous beasts, with wrinkled grey hides and formidable-looking tusks.

‘Africans, I’m afraid, sir,’ said the vicarius to his commander. ‘Note the huge ears and saddle backs; Indian elephants have smaller ears and are round-backed. They’re also more docile than their African cousins, who tend to be exceedingly ferocious in attack.’

‘Thank you, Victor; just what I wanted to hear. Well, we can only hope that our men keep their nerve and remember the drill we’ve tried to teach them.’ Aware that horses were panicked by the smell of elephants, the two men dismounted and had their steeds taken behind the lines.

A brazen clang of trumpets rang out and the elephants advanced, gradually picking up speed. Faster and faster they moved, trumpeting wildly, huge ears spread like sails, as they rolled towards the Romans like a vast grey billow. Surmounting each animal, and secured by chains, was a squat crenellated turret in which stood two mahouts. ‘That Polybius fellow had better be right,’ muttered Roderic grimly, then gave a sharp nod to Victor. The vicarius raised a whistle to a mouth gone suddenly dry, and blew a loud blast. (He had found that, in the din and confusion of battle, a whistle’s shrill note was more easily distinguished than a trumpet call.)

Striding among the men, the campidoctores or drill-sergeants shouted orders, and — just when it seemed that nothing could prevent the Numerus Euphratensis from being overwhelmed and smashed to bloody pulp — in a twinkling blur of movement the three ranks of Romans suddenly transformed themselves into several long files with wide avenues between. Each column bristled with outward-pointing pikes.

Elephants, like horses, are motivated by self-preservation. Unwilling to face those screens of wicked blades, they thundered down the escape routes provided by the corridors between the files, and out into the empty gorge beyond. Archers, positioned on the canyon’s lips or on ledges in its walls, now loosed off a deadly sleet of shafts — skewering the mahouts in their turrets, thus annulling any attempt to reverse the elephants’ headlong charge. To make sure they kept moving, groups of soldiers followed, shouting and banging pots and pans from the field kitchen. Returning, as an extra precaution they sowed the ground with caltrops* in accordance with orders from the vicarius (orders which the vicarius had, however, refrained from divulging to his commanding officer).

Once more the Persian trumpets sounded. The cataphractarii formed up and began to trot forward — a glittering wall of iron, the bodies of both men and horses invisible beneath carapaces of armour. The huge steeds were covered in trappers of scale or chain mail, their chests and faces further protected by moulded plates. Their riders’ limbs were encased in laminated bands, their bodies by articulated plates, while their globular or cylindrical helmets — stippled with holes to permit breathing and vision — gave them an unhuman appearance. The trot changed to a canter, the canter to a gallop, and down swung a row of lances, presenting a terrifying sight to the waiting Romans. For a second time that day, it seemed impossible that they could avoid being swept to destruction.

Then, at a signal from Roderic, Victor again blew his whistle; the campidoctores bellowed orders and the Romans thrust forward those long, long pikes, butt-spikes firmly anchored in the ground, to form an impenetrable thicket of points.

A charge by massed cataphracts should have proved irresistible. Protected by stout armour, both horses and riders were invulnerable to spears, and the massive weight of a cataphract formation was virtually guaranteed to smash through any line of infantry rash enough to stand against it. However, borrowing a tactic employed with tremendous success by Alexander in his Persian campaigns — the phalanx — the Romans had hit upon the one stratagem that could provide an effective counter.

Like a wave breaking against a cliff face, the cataphracts crashed against the wall of pikes — a wall in which the weapon of every man in the triple line was brought to bear. The Roman infantry, each soldier gripping his pike-shaft several yards behind the point of impact, experienced a collective jarring shock, but to their enormous relief (not unmixed with surprise) their ranks held firm. If presented as separated units, the pikes would have shattered, but opposed to the enemy as a solid mass, their effect was to diffuse the force of impact by spreading it over a wide area. Again and again the cataphracts re-formed, to hurl themselves against the hedge of blades — to no avail. At last a trumpet blew recall and the cataphracts withdrew to make way for the Persian infantry.

Where heavy shock troops had proved unable to break the Roman front, it was hardly likely that foot-soldiers — lightly armed, whose only protection was a wicker shield — would fare better. And so it proved. Constricted by the narrow gorge, they were unable to bring their overwhelming numbers to bear. Pushed forward by the momentum of those behind, the foremost ranks perished on the pikes to form a growing heap of dead, over which the living were forced to clamber. As the Persian advance began to stall, the two Roman leaders sprung the surprise they had prepared in advance.

Concealed till this moment in a side canyon, and now alerted by signals from soldiers posted on the edge of the defile, a detachment of Roman cavalry swept into the ravine and smashed into the Persians’ undefended rear. Taken unawares, with no time or opportunity to take up a defensive position, the Persian foot-soldiers fell like corn before the scythe, cut down by lethal swipes from the horsemen’s spathae — the long, Roman cutting swords, edged with razor-sharp steel. Now, as the Roman phalanx began to advance, morale among the Persian army, its men jammed helplessly together, began to crumble. Their discipline imposed by fear rather than inspired by patriotism, panic began to spread throughout the Persian rank-and-file, resulting in a fatal loss of cohesion. With shocking suddenness, what had been an organized force atomized into a rabble of terrified individuals, each motivated by just one thought — escape.

In disbelief, Tamshapur watched his army disintegrate around him. Screaming imprecations and threats of dire punishment for desertion (the mildest being live burial), he urged his captains to restore order. In vain the officers — from a caste fanatically adherent to a rigid code of loyalty and honour — threatened and pleaded; they were unable to stop the rot. Sensing that the right moment had arrived, Roderic and Victor called off the cavalry, allowing the Persians, now reduced to a huddled, fleeing mob, to escape from the death-trap that the canyon had become. His reputation in tatters, Tamshapur began the withdrawal of his mauled and demoralized force back beyond the Euphrates. East Rome could breathe again; the Diocese of Oriens was safe.

Feeling distinctly awkward and intimidated by the splendour of his surroundings, Roderic entered the vast colonnaded reception hall in Constantinople’s Great Palace, and made his way towards the elderly figure swathed in purple, who sat enthroned at the far end of the chamber.

‘Majesty — your humble servant is honoured to obey your summons,’ mumbled Roderic, clumsily dropping to one knee and bowing his head. Despite his rank, this was the first time that Roderic had been in the imperial presence, and he was uncomfortably aware that his ignorance of court ritual could be causing him to commit gaffes regarding etiquette. Too late, he recalled with a hot flush of shame, that the correct form of address was ‘Serenity’, not ‘Majesty’.

‘“Well done, thou good and faithful servant,” as Saint Mathew says,’ declared Anastasius, a smile lighting up his mild and kindly features. He waved the other to a nearby chair — an unheard-of honour, Roderic sensed, complying. ‘We are greatly in your debt,’ the emperor went on. ‘Thanks to your courage and initiative, a great danger threatening the safety of our realm has been avoided. It is only fitting you should be suitably rewarded. Accordingly, we hereby appoint you Magister Scholarum, together with, as a member of our Senate, the rank of Vir Clarissimus.’

Commander of the imperial guards and a senator to boot! Roderic’s brain whirled. At a stroke his status and circumstances had been transformed. From being a middle-ranking general who had often struggled to make ends meet, he was now holder of the army’s most prestigious post, with a seat in the august assembly of those who, in theory at least, made the Empire’s laws. And with these honours came wealth. Now, he could at last fulfil the promise he had made his sister in Dardania. He would send for Uprauda — his nephew and her son — and provide the boy with the finest education that Constantinople had to offer.

* AD 496 (See Notes.)

* Three-pronged spikes, one of which would always point upwards.