Triumph

CHAPTER FIVE

The very sound of the Goth advance, made up of numerous features, was designed to unnerve the defenders: cracking whips to drive on the lowing oxen, blowing horns splitting the chill morning air while spears and swords were used to batter hard leather shields. The grinding of rough wooden wheels over hard ground was accompanied by the cacophonous yelling of the assaulting warriors, this while those they faced stood in total silence.

Every eye was on the man in command, standing like a statue, his gaze steady and his bow strung with an arrow but not yet raised to fire. If there were those who would see this pose as artificial, as one that implied death held no terrors, they would be wrong. This was what Flavius Belisarius had trained for since he was a boy, under the tutelage of his own father, Decimus, and those the centurion had put in to teach him the art of war.

He had rewarded his sire by being the best of his age, faster on his feet, quicker of eye with a sword, able to outcast his fellows with his spear and superbly adept with the weapon he now held, the kind of bow he had helped to design, given the Hun pattern that had dominated the battlefield for decades did not suit his heavy cavalry.

As to losing his own life, Flavius had long given no consideration to the possibility. Having witnessed his father and three older brothers die through treachery he had felt since that day his own existence had no other value than the service he could provide to the empire of which Decimus Belisarius had been so proud.

In part, too, and so deeply buried as to be far from openly acknowledged, was shame that he had survived. Should he too not have expired alongside them in a fight that perfidy had made death the only possible outcome? He had, as a youngster, taken as his hero the stoic emperor Marcus Aurelius, who held that no man was master of his own destiny and to pretend otherwise was folly. If it had been hard to hold to the tenets of that philosophical soldier as witness to the massacre of his family, he was still imbued with it as a core belief.

He could sense the men he led becoming anxious; surely he was allowing the enemy too much licence in their approach, permitting them to get so close to the walls that the faces of the enemy, or what could be seen under their helmets, was in plain view. There was a collective sigh as his bow was slowly raised to be drawn, and if the chosen target was a mystery it did not remain so for long following the release.

There were warriors atop the nearest siege tower, not many to avoid overburdening the oxen, but enough to present a mark. The first arrow was still in the air as Flavius slotted home a second from his quiver and he was reaching for a third when the man at whom he had originally aimed took the bolt in the neck, two more of his compatriots following before they even guessed they were under attack. Then came the order to fire and suddenly the air was full of flying death as the body of defending archers sent off their first salvo.

That it fell on the enemy soldiers was to be expected; the vehemence of Flavius Belisarius was not. He ordered that they should concentrate on the oxen pulling the battering rams and the siege towers, for to kill them was to render such engines of war useless; there was no human agency able to replace the pulling power of these beasts.

There was as yet little counter fire to worry about, archery not being as predominant in the Gothic force, a point Flavius had noted in that first encounter. Added to that they would be required to fire on a high arc, which obliged them to stop and aim, thus rendering each bowman an easy, static target. The towers and rams slowed as the bleating oxen were first weakened then began to expire, those dying dragging down their fellow beasts, this before they got close enough to present a danger to the curtain wall or the towers that abutted the gates.

Flavius was no longer present to observe; he had chosen these gates to personally defend because if the flat ground used by the citizens of Rome for growing food favoured the Goth engines of war, it also, once they became stuck, allowed him a chance to sally forth and counter-attack. Solomon had been left on the parapet to provide the signal Flavius wanted, one that told him the Goth assault had faltered and was in confusion.

With Photius once more at his side, he ordered the gate before him opened so he and the cavalry he led could debouch onto the open ground, where they gathered into a formidable formation that made standing against them hazardous, especially for men fighting on foot. Witigis had not brought forward his horsemen, which left the field free to his opponent and Flavius took full advantage, rampaging forward to drive back an assault that was already lacking in momentum, the Goths falling back behind those now static siege engines.

To his rear, runners emerged from the open gate carrying flaming torches, others bearing amphorae of oil, this poured over the wooden constructs before the flames were applied. With the Goth foot soldiers stuck, Witigis got his horsemen mounted, no doubt expecting the customary charge from his enemies needed to drive home the reverse.

Flavius failed to oblige; with superb discipline and on command, the bucellarii of his comitatus reined in their mounts. Once certain the rams and towers were well alight they shepherded the men who had fired them back through the gates, which were quickly shut.

Witigis had launched several simultaneous assaults, indeed there was good reason to believe that the effort just repulsed had acted as something of a feint to pin the main defence. Once back inside the walls and dismounted, Flavius was brought news from the other places at risk, the most dangerous being on the Porta Cornelia hard by Hadrian’s Tomb on the western walls.

There, abundant foliage and the remains of exterior buildings had allowed the enemy to get close to the base without suffering too many casualties and this obliged the archers placed there to lean far out to take aim, this obviously exposing them, which led to losses that soon became too serious to sustain. Also, the catapults placed on the roof of the mausoleum were of no use since they could only fire outwards.

Running out of stones to drop on the heads of their ladder-climbing enemies and with too many wounded bowmen to hold by arrow fire, Constantinus had ordered broken up the numerous classical statues that adorned the rim of the massive tomb. These were then hurled at their enemies in sufficient quantity to drive them back and thus render them vulnerable to the catapults.

Word came that an assault on the Porta Pancratia, also on the west bank of the Tiber but further to the south of Hadrian’s Tomb, had likewise been repulsed. Yet as this good news was being delivered, word of real threat came from the Porta Chiusa, three gates to the south of the attack Flavius had just smashed.

He had known from his very first inspections this was a vulnerable spot: due to natural subsidence the original wall had collapsed and a new one had been built on the outer side to shield the damaged section. The Goths, as well as employing siege engines, had been mining under that outer wall, and given they were seemingly successful, there was danger of a collapse. If they followed that up they would press hard and, unaided, his men might not be able to hold.

Such an emergency required the presence of the man in command, the sight of which raised the spirits of those facing the enemy. Here was Flavius Belisarius, who had so often outwitted his opponents. That he did now; the space between the two walls was known as the Vivarium, it being used to graze livestock, but there were none there now and it represented an empty zone, one Flavius saw he could use to advantage.

Instead of seeking to oppose the Goth mining he let it proceed, and soon, as a battering ram was added to effort, the sound of crashing masonry filled the air, followed by a billowing cloud of dust, proof a breach had been created. The first of the attackers who came clambering over the pile of debris could not do so in any real order. What faced them across the greensward Vivarium was not another wall but one where the rubble of the previous collapse had been so raised as to make it defensible.

The sight of such an unexpected obstacle took the verve out of the Goth thrust; it was obvious the man leading the attack was at a loss to know how to proceed against a hindrance he and his men were seeing for the first time. Flavius sent forward his Isaurians to engage them, throwing the Goth ranks into confusion and such disorder that they sought to withdraw through the breach they had just made. Climbing to get clear, the rubble was no easier than their entry and that left them as easy prey to the spears and swords of their enemies.

As soon as the withdrawal turned into flight, Flavius came forward with his cavalry and that ensured a second rout, one that again allowed his men to fire the engines of war the Goths had abandoned and send, in the smoke from all along the east wall, a message to Witigis that his first attempt to retake Rome had failed abysmally.

Even if it was to be the first of many such a reverse, it must provide a dent to their morale, while that of the men Flavius led must likewise soar to see the enemy so comprehensively repulsed. Added to that, it might still the grumbles of those Roman citizens who feared the city was indefensible.

‘Your Imperial Eminence must be aware that with the troops I have at my disposal, and having had to detach numerous bodies to act as garrisons in those places which have surrendered to your authority in the southern half of Italy, I can do no more than hold what I have without either reinforcements or some act of others to draw off Witigis and his forces. Lacking that, if I can repel attempts to retake Rome, I cannot break the siege and proceed to fulfil that aim with which you charged me.’

Procopius finished reading the despatch that, once approved, would be sent to Justinian and he looked to his general for authorisation; it had, of course, been discussed prior to composition and included a report on the successful repulse of the first attempt by Witigis to take the city. The information regarding garrisons was accurate; close to a full third of his army was thus engaged and he feared to gather them to him and leave the route south open to rupture.

His secretary and assessor was forced to await a response. Flavius was deep in thought, Procopius wondering if those ruminations might include reflections on the nature of the man they both served. It was no secret between them that Procopius reposed less faith in Justinian than the army commander. Flavius talked of him as a friend, Procopius saw him as a fickle weathercock too much influenced by his endemically suspicious wife.

Always seeing plots to depose her husband – that some were real was true but to such a vivid imagination more were pure fantasy – Procopius was as aware as his master that the Empress Theodora saw Flavius Belisarius as a major threat, not only to Justinian but through him to her own person, and her reasoning, to a disinterested mind, was understandable if misplaced.

The man who had won the Battle of Dara on the Persian frontier, the first victory against the Sassanid Empire for several decades, and defeated the Vandals in North Africa was popular in a capital city where those who held the reins of power were not, being seen as honest and straightforward in his dealings, a reputation spread by the very men he led into battle.

The imperial couple stood at the apex of empire and tended to be blamed for everything seen to be wrong, not least the endemic corruption of the empire’s officials with whom the common folk had to deal. Justinian had worked hard since coming to power to curb the depredations as well as the perceived rights the patrician class had abrogated to themselves over centuries: well-paid sinecures and offices in a vast and sprawling empire in which the diversion of monies intended for the imperial treasury was too easy and justice in the courts went to those with the deepest purse.

In trying to promote men of merit regardless of class, Justinian had become locked in a battle of wills with what he called a hydra-headed monster, a nexus of self-interest so tangled it defied full comprehension. The empire must be governed; those qualified to do so and who were incorruptible were too few for the tasks that required execution, all layered into a system: tax-collecting, provincial governance, judicial oversight and military commands.

Added to that there was a relentless campaign of vilification from those who felt threatened by moves to suborn their privileges, while neither Justinian nor Theodora were free from the taint of being born into the wrong class by those who cared deeply for their bloodlines. Justinian’s father might have been a patrician but his mother came, like the Emperor Justin and thus his succeeding nephew, from a clan of what were held to be Illyrian peasants.

This was a charge often levelled at Flavius as well by the patricians among his officers, Constantinus included, though never publically. Thanks to Procopius and what he called his confidants it was no secret; there was little that happened or was said in the various villas occupied by his subordinates that the man in command did not know about.

The background of Theodora being even more dubious, it was the subject of endless salacious gossip and graffiti, which had the imperial palace as a hotbed of sexual infamy. This left the imperial couple more feared than loved, especially her because she was known to be capricious. In truth, Theodora was no innocent; she had been mistress to another man before she met and enthralled Justinian.

That coming together had taken place in one of the low taverns down by the capital’s docks where the future emperor felt so utterly at home, more so than he did in the homes of the wealthy. There, fathers were keen to present to him, as the nephew of a successful general close to the reigning emperor, their daughters, hypocrisy being no bar to patrician ambitions.

The Empress had been one of the exotic dancers who provided dissolute if enticing entertainment, and if some hinted that she had snared her spouse by sex or sorcery, then Flavius knew more than most what an enthusiastic article he had been, having himself visited these establishments in the company of his now emperor and been amused by his attraction to those of low birth and even lower morals.

Theodora had resented their close connection from the very first time Flavius had met her and that had only grown as she rose to her present eminence. It angered her that Justinian listened to Flavius, but even more the tone that the latter used to address a near divine ruler to whom he should have grovelled; how dare he suppose he had the right to tell his master what he saw as the truth!

The perception of Flavius Belisarius being seen as honest seemed to anger more than temper her animosity, a general who took care to see his soldiers properly fed and promptly paid, which was far from the norm. He had captured the fabulous and priceless treasure of the Vandals, accumulated over centuries of pillage across the whole of the old Western Roman Empire from the Rhine to the Pillars of Hercules in Hispania, yet he rewarded himself with no more than what was his rightful due.

If that was substantial and he was rich because of his military successes and the titles he held, such good fortune made him, to her twisted mind, more not less of a threat. If he succeeded in Italy what would Theodora think of him then? At least that took his mind off matters about which he could do nothing and brought it to those he could.

‘We need to find a way to diminish Witigis without waiting for him to mount another major attack on the walls.’

‘Does what I have composed for transmission to Constantinople meet with your approval?’

Flavius caught the slightly tetchy tone in his secretary’s voice, for he had been too busy mulling over extraneous matters to truly listen and the way it was phrased was of some importance. Every word would be examined for a hint of duplicity.

‘Would it trouble you to read it to me once more?’

The ‘No’, in addition to the sharp shake of the head gave a lie to the statement; his man was irritated, though there was nothing new in that. Flavius actually preferred Procopius to be as he was, somewhat of the opinion that his master required to be guided for his own good, not that he would ever tell him so. As he was honest with Justinian, Procopius was truthful with him.

At least with all the problems Flavius had his wife was not present; the pair loathed each other, with Antonina convinced that Procopius carried a secret passion for her husband, a notion he refused to believe. There had never been a single incidence since the day they had first encountered each other on the Persian frontier that the man had demonstrated any thoughts that were untoward. Having raised that, it was the next one that was troubling for he could not say the same for his own wife.

Flavius had to force himself to concentrate as Procopius reread the despatch he had composed, aware it was nothing but the bare truth. He needed either more soldiers or some action elsewhere to draw off Witigis, a breakout in Illyricum or a reversal of the truce the Goths had concluded with the Franks, the pity being that such possibilities could not be raised in writing: Theodora would leap on matters that she saw as being outside his responsibilities to tell her husband to beware.

‘I have advised you already to send your own embassy to Clovis,’ Procopius concluded. ‘You are in a position to offer him that which Justinian cannot.’

‘No, even what he holds, especially that which Witigis has surrendered to free up his soldiers. Justinian sees such territories as integral to the Roman Empire.’

‘Do you believe we can both beat the Goths and fight the Franks?’

‘No, but piecemeal, perhaps, and that applies to Hispania as much as Gaul. Anyway, it is of little moment what I believe, what counts is the dreams of our emperor, Procopius, and you know, for I have told you repeatedly, he has harboured those desires since he was a youth.’

‘I am aware of your long association.’

That got a wry smile, given the last word had been carefully chosen. Procopius would never allude, as he might, to friendship, given he thought such a connection to be impossible with any ruler and doubly so with the present incumbent. Yet Flavius and Justinian had known each other a very long time, since the day a young Belisarius had come to Constantinople as a near drifter seeking justice for his father and brothers.

If that had been achieved it was down to the man he now served. That redress for the murder of his family had involved a deep conspiracy and one in which he had been as ignorant as those against whom it was truly aimed. Such obfuscation counted for little set against the fact that it was an unqualified success, as the power of his family’s nemesis had been utterly destroyed.

Likewise the elevation of his uncle Justinus from Commander of the Imperial Guard to the purple as Justin the First; that would never have happened without the machinations of the nephew, and if it had been contrived by him for a selfish long-term aim it had been another undoubted achievement. Justinian could conspire like no one Flavius had ever met and sometimes, it had been reasoned, he was inclined to get so embroiled in his machinations he acted against his own best interest.

‘What a boon it would be,’ Procopius said, ‘if you could write to the Emperor a letter he would not show to his wife. Perhaps then …’

The wistful hope was left hanging. Justinian, either through fear or blind trust, Flavius was never sure which, shared everything with Theodora. Mind, she was such a termagant if thwarted he doubted her husband had much choice.

‘I need to walk the walls, Procopius. Come with me and send for Photius as well.’

They were on the parapet when Flavius posed his question: what are our major difficulties? It was the non-military Procopius who responded.

‘Enemy numbers.’

‘I said difficulties.’ Receiving no immediate reply from either of his companions Flavius added, ‘Enemy spirit. A warrior people that elects their king expects that he will be victorious.’

‘And if he fails,’ Photius interjected unnecessarily, to a sharp rejoinder from Procopius.

‘Then they depose him and elect another.’

‘Or kill him,’ replied the slightly abashed youngster.

‘Would it be impious to hope for such an outcome?’ Flavius responded. ‘It may be, but we can surely sow doubt in their ability to finally win and I cannot wait until Justinian gets that despatch and acts upon it.’

‘If indeed he does, Magister.’

‘Would I be correct, father,’ Photius put forward, ‘in the notion that you already have a plan?’

‘A notion no more, Photius. Do you recall that first encounter we had after we chased away the Goths who had crossed the Milvian Bridge?’

‘I recall we were forced to fall back and quickly.’

‘True, but we were not routed. We held them at bay and retired when it suited us by the employment of archery. I have a feeling we can do the same outside these walls.’

The slow pace at which they had hitherto walked the parapet quickened suddenly as Flavius made his way back to the senatorial villa he had taken as his residence. There had been no need to commandeer it, the owner being one of those hostages Witigis had taken to Ravenna when he left Leuderis to hold the city. There was no chance the senator would come back either. After the first repulse, Witigis had let it be known who would pay the price for that; he had sent orders that all his hostages should be murdered.