Caesar's Sword (I): The Red Death Read online

  Life has often forced me to adapt, and I slowly learned to smother my prejudices and respect my new comrades. As soldiers, they were worthy of anyone’s respect. The Romans had started to recruit the Heruli as mercenaries after suffering a number of disastrous defeats against them in battle, and by the time of Justinian’s reign they were an integral part of the imperial army.

  That army was very different from the Roman army of antiquity that had conquered much of the known world. The famous infantry legions were a thing of the past, as the diminished Empire no longer had the resources and manpower to maintain them. Instead the army was now divided into squadrons of at most twelve hundred men each.

  The total fighting strength of the Empire was roughly three hundred thousand men. About two-thirds of these were lightly-armed garrison troops, the limatanei, whose task was to guard the frontiers. The rest made up the mobile field army or comitanenses, largely drawn from the tribes of Germania and Scythia or the bleak mountain regions of Armenia and Isauria. These regions produced tough, hardy men and ideal soldier material.

  With such a denuded military, and surrounded by hostile nations eager to pick away at Roman territory, the Empire was hard-pressed to defend its borders. Still, successive Emperors dreamed of restoring the glory of the Western Empire and recapturing the Eternal City of Rome.

  None cherished grander dreams than Justinian. I soon learned the extent of them, along with the meaning of Belisarius’ words when he took my oath in the Hippodrome.

  The Heruli had their barracks and training ground outside the city, since they weren’t trusted enough to be quartered within the walls. At first I struggled to earn their grudging tolerance, as I struggled to learn their drill and how to use spears and javelins from horseback. They were raised in the saddle, like most of these nomadic barbarian tribes, and heartily despised anyone who couldn’t match their skill at horsemanship.

  At meals I sat apart, wincing as I tried to force down the crude mess of beans, stew and black bread that made up their rations. The Heruli liked to wash down this ghastly repast with great draughts of foul-tasting ale. It was powerful stuff, and fights inevitably broke out, often resulting in serious injury or even death. Such incidents seldom met with any punishment. There was no-one to enforce it, and a few crippled or dead foederati were counted as no great loss. Such was the discipline of the Roman army in this degenerate age!

  On the seventh day after my enlistment, a Roman officer came to the camp with orders for me to accompany him to the palace. The commander of the Heruli, a foul-mouthed veteran named Pharas, shrugged and gave me permission to go.

  We rode into the city via one of the Military Gates and made our way along the Mese towards the palace. The thoroughfare was less densely-populated than usual, for the Nika riots and the massacre at the Hippodrome cast a long shadow. Guardsmen patrolled the streets, casting suspicious eyes on the citizens and making arrests on the slightest pretext.

  The Hippodrome itself, once the heartbeat of the city, was dark and silent. Justinian had ordered the Circus to be closed down, and the surviving rebels either imprisoned or sold into slavery. Some of these wretches were forced to remove the rotting bodies of their former comrades from the arena, and to scrub it clean of blood. Even so, the Hippodrome still stank of death, and I had to clap a hand over my face as we rode past.

  A dozen or so slaves were formed into a group outside the gates, chained together under the watchful gaze of a troop of Huns. The slaves bore the marks of slavery branded into their cheeks and shoulders. A few glanced up in surprise as I cantered by, and no doubt wondered how Britannicus had managed to avoid their miserable fate.

  As we approached the Augusteum, I noticed a number of serious-looking men carrying charts and styluses and examining the charred ruins of the buildings destroyed by the rioters. These were Justinian’s architects, employed to plan his grand project to rebuild the centre of the city. Their labours would eventually result in the great domed cathedral of Hagia Sophia, built on the foundations of the old basilica church, and one of the wonders of the world. The Emperor’s grand vision, shared by few at the time, was typical of the strange mixture of capacity, spite, wisdom, foresight and envy that made up his character.

  We entered the palace via the Chalke Gate, where the officer exchanged salutes with the Excubitors on duty. I noticed how young and fresh-faced they were, and that Captain Leontius and his men were absent.

  “Leontius and his fellow waverers were stripped of their rank after the riots,” the officer explained in response to my query, “and sent to the Eastern front. The men at the gate are raw recruits. They are young and inexperienced, but at least their loyalty is not suspect.”

  He led me to the upper levels of the palace, up flights of stairs and through a warren of halls and corridors, until we reached a suite of private rooms guarded by a couple of Belisarius’s Veterans. They stood aside to allow us through into a large, sparsely-furnished chamber that opened onto a balcony with a splendid view of the Bosphorus and the Sea of Marmara.

  Belisarius and Narses were sitting at a table in the centre of the room, poring over a scattered heap of maps. Neither of them looked up as we entered.

  “Sirs,” announced the officer, “as instructed, I have brought the Briton from the camp of the Heruli.”

  “Thank you,” murmured Narses, “go and attend to your duties. I’m sure you must have some.”

  He flapped a plump hand vaguely in the direction of the officer, who saluted and marched out. The eunuch and the general scraped back their chairs and turned their attention to me.

  “How is the life of a soldier suiting you, Coel?” asked Belisarius, “I trust the company of the Heruli is not too unbearable. They are rough souls, but among the best fighters we have.”

  “It is hard, sir,” I admitted, “but no harder than I expected.”

  “I am impressed by your forbearance,” said Narses, lacing his fingers together over his protruding belly, “the Heruli are a smelly, undisciplined pack of savages. I could not bear their company for an hour, let alone a week.”

  I said nothing, and wondered at their reason for summoning me. These men were the twin pillars that the Empire rested on. Everything they did was for the sake of Rome - mingled, in the case of Narses, with private ambition.

  “Come closer,” said Belisarius, “and take a look at this map.”

  I approached the table. The map he indicated showed the coastline of North Africa, with the cities of Carthage and Hippo Regius marked out in red.

  “You must have heard,” he added, “that the Emperor has designs on reclaiming North Africa for Rome.”

  I nodded. It was common knowledge that Justinian wished to retake the former Roman province, though his plans had been interrupted by the riots. Two years previously, the reigning King of the Vandals, Hilderic, had been deposed and imprisoned by his cousin Gelimer. Seeing an opportunity to exploit discord among the Vandals, Justinian had wasted no time in protesting at Hilderic’s treatment and demanding his release and restoration. Secure in his power and contemptuous of the Romans, whom he regarded as degenerate, Gelimer ignored him.

  That was the situation as I, and most Roman citizens who took an interest in the world outside Constantinople, understood it. Justinian’s interference in North Africa seemed another of his vain follies. Sixty years previously, a previous Emperor had tried to reconquer the province with a fleet of ten thousand ships and an army of over a hundred thousand men. The fleet and the army were both exterminated by the Vandals, and the Roman military had never truly recovered. Certainly the Empire could never hope to mount such a vast expedition again.

  “Now that order has been restored to the capital,” said Belisarius, “Caesar is determined to resume his plans. The invasion of North Africa will go ahead, and I have been appointed to lead the expedition. Close your mouth, Coel, you might catch flies.”

  I stopped gaping and racked my brains for something to say. There was nothing positive to be
said about the proposed expedition. It was madness, sheer vanity, though at least now I understood why Belisarius had recommended I join the army.

  Narses was watching me closely. “Belisarius has told me about your lost property,” he said in the ridiculous high-pitched trill that masked his formidable intellect, “a sword owned by your grandfather. Arthur, wasn’t it? Some barbaric name. He assumed an old Roman title and governed your island for a time.”

  “Careful, Narses,” Belisarius warned, only half-mockingly, “Coel is delicate on the subject of his grandfather. Arthur was a good soldier, and succeeded in defending Britain from the pirates and renegades that wished to plunder it. Something our legions failed to do.”

  Narses ignored him. “What were you told about this sword?” he asked. His eyes, dark oversized orbs under heavy brows, bored into mine.

  I cleared my throat. “Everything I know about it I had from my mother, lord,” I replied truthfully, “the sword is called Caledfwlch in our tongue, though it has other names.”

  “Caledfwlch,” Narses echoed, rolling the name around his mouth, “how does that translate? What are these other names?”

  “It means Hard Cleaver, lord. The other names translate as Red Death or Grey Death. You Romans had your own name for the sword.”

  “Crocea Mors,” Belisarius said softly, “Yellow Death.”

  Narses sighed and kneaded his brow. “As I understand it,” he went on, slowly and deliberately, “you and your mother came to this city, many years ago, and brought this accursed pig-sticker with you. You were then sold into slavery. Your new owner took the sword with him on some mission to Carthage. He never returned.”

  I replied that this was so.

  Narses and Belisarius looked at each other. “It fits,” said the eunuch, “I wish it did not, but it all fits.”

  He turned back to me. “I try to be a rational man. I place little faith in auguries and soothsayers, and even less in long-lost magic swords. I do, however, believe in the power of belief. And symbols. So does the King of the Vandals.”

  “You may as well know that Domitius died in Carthage,” said Belisarius, “he caught a fever shortly after his arrival in Africa. No foul play was suspected at the time, but recent events shed new light on his death. Gelimer has united the Vandals behind him, from North Africa to their provinces in Tripoli and Sardinia. His panegyrists are speaking of him as a new Genseric, one who will unite the barbarian peoples and lead them to destroy the Roman Empire, once and for all.”

  Genseric was the half-legendary Vandal chief who had first led his people from Spain to North Africa, sacked Rome and founded the line of Vandal kings, of whom Gelimer was the latest.

  “Our ambitious little barbarian has acquired a sword,” said Narses with a bitter smile, “the sword of Caesar, so Gelimer claims, carried by great Julius when he conquered Gaul and Britain. The sword wielded by Aeneas, who fled the sack of Troy and founded Rome. The sword forged by Vulcan in the smithies of Mount Olympus.”

  “The sword wielded by Arthur, who held Britain in the teeth of barbarian invasions,” put in Belisarius, “anyone who wields such a remarkable blade could rally all the nations of the world under his banner.”

  They looked at me expectantly. I had nothing to say. The whole thing seemed too incredible. My birthright had somehow fallen into the hands of a power-mad Vandal warlord.

  It occurred to me that the situation was partially my fault. For one terror-struck moment I wondered if Narses and Belisarius also held this opinion. I had seen what they were capable of, and knew there was little they would not do to preserve the Roman state.

  “Gelimer must be defeated,” said Narses, “and Julius Caesar’s sword brought back to Constantinople for safe keeping. You, Coel, are going to help us get it.”

  Chapter 14

  The public announcement of the expedition to North Africa restored much of Justinian’s popularity. There is nothing so guaranteed as a war to unite people in mutual hatred of an enemy, especially if that enemy is comfortably distant.

  However popular the war might have been with the rabble, it had the opposite effect on the Emperor’s financiers and generals. The financiers, led by John of Cappadocia, that sly and subtle man, complained that such a campaign would be ruinously expensive, and beggar the Empire. Their real purpose, of course, was to conceal their own corruption and incompetence, which had so depleted the imperial treasury.

  With the exception of Belisarius, the generals warned that the Roman army was no longer capable of conducting overseas campaigns, especially against an enemy so numerous and well-armed as the Vandals.

  These were persuasive arguments, and Justinian might have called off the expedition but for the interference of a Catholic priest. This pious meddler approached the Emperor in council and exhorted him to stand forth as a champion of Christ.

  “Hark to the very words of the Lord,” the priest urged, “He said, I will march before him in battles, and make him sovereign of Africa!”

  The revelation that God was on his side greatly appealed to Justinian’s famous vanity. Without further delay he ordered a fleet and an army to be gathered for this now sacred enterprise.

  The preparations for the campaign required many months of labour and planning. During this time I continued to learn my trade at the camp of the Heruli. Their commander, Pharas, drilled his men relentlessly, and I spent countless hours learning to ride in step, exercising with sword and spear and casting javelins at straw targets.

  If I was a handless clown, the Heruli at least appreciated my commitment, and I made some friends among them. As Narses said, they were rough and undisciplined, but brave and expert fighters. One Roman historian referred to the Heruli as a “shadowy, funereal host,” after their strategy of painting their shields and bodies black and launching sudden ambushes under cover of darkness.

  “Our ancestors worshipped the wolf-god, Wodan,” said my friend Girenas, “and would draw on his power to enter a battle-frenzy. They fought naked, and while under the god’s influence were virtually impossible to kill.”

  “That was before the Christians found us,” remarked his brother Girulis, “the priests told us that our old ways were sinful, and commanded us to abandon them.”

  “My brother is born out of time,” laughed Girenas, giving Girulis a sly look, “he longs for the days when our people ran naked through the forests. Wodan was not like Christ. The wolf-god cared little what men did on this earth…even if they were inclined to couple with other men.”

  Girulis went red in the face and dived at his brother. The table was overturned as they fell onto the rushes in a struggling, snarling heap. I sighed, picked up the scattered remains of my supper and found a quieter table to reflect on what Girenas had told me.

  From his words and later enquiry I learned that the Heruli had at one time practised sodomy as a way of forging bonds between warriors. The ancient Greeks had done the same. It was a practical measure as much as anything, for an army of lovers is not easily conquered. Some isolated Heruli tribes still followed the old ways, regardless of the Christian church and her threats of sin and damnation.

  After several months among the Heruli, learning their customs and manner of soldiering, I started to think of myself as one of them. I grew my hair and beard, and wore the bronze torcs and arm-rings that were presented to me as gifts. Girenas gave me a sword-belt, made of cheap metal but with each of the links skilfully fashioned into the shapes of bears, horses, wolves and stags. My gift for languages helped me to assimilate, and by the winter of that year I was reasonably fluent in their tongue.

  I saw little of Belisarius during this time, unsurprisingly since he was responsible for gathering the army as well as leading it. He threw his entire being into this purpose, but money and men were limited. After a year of feverishly mustering and recruiting troops from all parts of the Empire, he had assembled an army of no more than fifteen thousand men. Of these, ten thousand were infantry of wildly varying quality. Bel
isarius placed his faith in the five thousand cavalry, which consisted of foederati troops and his guards, the bucelarii.

  There were fifteen hundred bucelarii. They were the elite core of the army, and the proof and product of Belisarius’s genius. Raised, trained and equipped at his private expense, they were intended to be both shock troops and skirmishers.

  He spared no expense on their gear. The riders were protected by mail corselets that reached to the knees and elbows, iron bucklers strapped to the upper part of their left arms, conical helmets with cheek-guards, and reinforced thigh protectors and greaves.

  The general trained them to skirmish from long distance, and to launch devastating charges. To these ends they were armed with lances, Hunnish-style composite bows and spathas. For good measure they also carried five throwing darts apiece, strapped to the insides of their shields. Their horses were protected by coats made of quilted leather, thick enough to afford some protection against arrows but not cumbersome enough to slow the beasts down.

  During my spare moments I watched Belisarius drill these extraordinary troops on the plain beyond the landward walls of Constantinople. I marvelled at their discipline and skill at manoeuvring, even at full gallop, and thanked God I was on their side as I watched them practise on lines of dummies stuffed with straw. The horsemen were required to put at least four arrows into the dummies as they charged, and then close in and impale or behead them with lances and spathas. High rank and pay went to those soldiers who displayed the most skill.

  Hundreds of ships were needed to convey the army to North Africa, and upwards of twenty thousand men drafted from Egypt and Cilicia to build and man them. One day Narses summoned me to the harbour of the Golden Horn, where we could watch the fleet being constructed.

  “Five hundred transports for the troops,” the eunuch remarked, pointing out where some of the larger ships were clustered, “varying from thirty to five hundred tons. They will be escorted on the voyage by ninety-two dromons – you see those smaller vessels?”