Caesar's Sword (I): The Red Death Page 15

I averted my eyes just before the impact. There was a moment of dislocation, when the screams of men and horses and trumpets and the thunderous collision of bodies penetrated even my ruined hearing.

  When I dared to look again, the Vandal battle-line was smashed beyond repair. The Romans had punched straight through it like an iron fist. Here and there small groups of Vandal warriors stood and fought to the end, but there was no longer any trace of organised resistance.

  Zano’s standard was down, hacked from its staff, and the Vandal prince lay dying under his fallen banner. A Roman lance had impaled his belly and thrust out of his spine.

  Once again the death of a brother completely unmanned Gelimer. He uttered a great shriek, as though the lance had entered his own body, and slumped in the saddle.

  I thought his heart had failed. One of his officers reached out to touch his shoulder, and he jerked like a scalded cat.

  “The battle is lost, Majesty,” shouted the officer, “but we shall not let the Romans take you.”

  Mention of capture brought Gelimer back to his senses. “Taken?” he exclaimed in horror, “to be a prisoner – to be paraded like a wild animal before Justinian? Never!”

  He turned his horse around and spurred away, so quickly it took me and his guards by surprise. I was dragged along in his wake, and just had time to turn my head and witness the death-throes of the Vandal army.

  The worst moments of a battle are the last, when one side breaks and turns to flee. This is when the real killing begins. Tricamarum was no different. Belisarius had beaten the Vandals twice, and now he had to destroy their capacity to fight him a third time.

  Normally he kept his troops on a tight rein. Now he unleashed them. His cavalry under John the Armenian set off in merciless pursuit of the fugitives, while his infantry overwhelmed and slaughtered those that were too proud to run.

  The Vandal nation, that had conquered Spain and North Africa and sacked Rome, died by inches in the blood and dust outside Tricamarum. Its king escaped from the field, as he had escaped from Decimum, accompanied by a few guards and one hapless prisoner.

  Chapter 20

  I was at a loss to know where Gelimer could go. His capital was lost, and there were no fortresses he could take refuge in: when they conquered North Africa, the Vandals had deliberately destroyed all the fortified places in the province, so they could not be occupied by rebel garrisons. This policy now proved disastrous, for it meant Belisarius did not have to waste the limited strength of his army on lengthy sieges.

  I had forgotten that there was one other major city in the province still held by the Vandals. This was Hippo Regius, some sixty miles south-west down the coast from Carthage.

  That headlong gallop through the desert at night was one of the strangest experiences of my life. Thunder rolled in the inky depths of the African skies, and flashes of greenish fire played around the lance-heads of Gelimer’s guards. Some of them cried that this was a sign of divine displeasure, and that the Vandals no longer enjoyed the grace of God.

  They also took it as an excuse to desert their king. The company steadily grew less and less as we rode westwards, until only the most loyal men remained with him - and I, of course, who had no choice in the matter.

  Gelimer called a halt before the horses could founder. The thunder had faded away to the east, and the freezing tranquillity of the desert at night made for a stark contrast to the chaos and slaughter of the battlefield. I could hear the crashing of waves half a mile or so to the north, and thought longingly of the green homeland I could barely remember, hundreds of miles away across land and sea.

  There was no sign of the Romans, though initially a squadron of foederati had come thundering after us in hot pursuit. Unknown to us, John the Armenian had somehow got into a fight with one of his soldiers, and the soldier had struck him a mortal blow. This farcical occurrence halted the pursuit, and the foederati turned back to carry their commander’s body to Belisarius.

  “This is not the end,” panted Gelimer, “the deaths of so many of my kin, and of my brave soldiers, must be avenged. God wills it. We shall go to Hippo Regius, where I have stored a reserve of my treasure, and send emissaries to the King of the Visigoths in Spain. He shall give us troops to create a new army, one that shall sweep the Romans out of our land for good.”

  His face looked haggard and ghastly in the pale light of the half-moon, and his words lacked conviction. The game was up. I knew it, and so did Gelimer’s guards.

  “God has turned His face from us,” cried one of his officers, whom I had never previously heard utter a word of criticism against his sovereign, “and handed victory to the Romans, our ancient enemies, as a punishment for your heresy!”

  He pointed his lance accusingly at Gelimer. His comrades – there were only a handful of them left, maybe nine or ten – took up his cry. The Vandals were a fearsomely proud race, and it was far easier to blame one man for their defeat at the hands of a people they regarded as degenerate.

  Gelimer’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times, putting me in mind of a startled fish, but he had nothing to say. His well of speeches had run dry, and he could no longer count on the automatic loyalty of his subjects. Belisarius had destroyed his credibility.

  “Farewell, Majesty,” said the officer, “I have followed you as far as I can, and must make my own way in the world. May God forgive you, and guide you to some peaceful haven.”

  He turned his horse and rode away into the desert. After easing their consciences with similar noises of regret, the others departed singly or in little groups.

  Gelimer watched them go in silence. He had the wretched look of a man whose spirit had flowed out of him, leaving a broken and useless vessel. No-one else remained besides me and a twelve-year old boy named Euages, his last surviving nephew.

  “Majesty,” I said, hoping to take advantage of his weakness, “cut my bonds.”

  He nodded dumbly at Euages. The boy trotted over to me, drew his dagger and slit the leather cords that bound my wrists. I gasped and doubled up in pain as the blood flowed back into my numbed hands.

  While I recovered, Gelimer slid from his horse and went down on his knees in the sand. Then he slowly drew Caledfwlch and offered it to me, hilt-first.

  “Take it,” he said, “the sword is rightfully yours. God has punished me for assuming that it was mine, and would lead me to dominion over the earth.”

  I could hardly believe what was being offered, after so many years and hardships. Caledfwlch’s hilt glinted in the moonlight. All I had to do was reach out and snatch it.

  “Promise me this,” the king went on, “when you take the sword, let your first act be to plunge it into my breast. I would do so myself, but lack the courage.”

  Euages cried out and half-drew his dagger, but Gelimer raised a hand to still his protests.

  “Patience, nephew,” he said with a wry smile, “let this man do one clean thing, and you shall be King of the Vandals. I wish you joy of your crown. King of a conquered people, of dust and ashes!”

  Gelimer’s extraordinary eyes yearned up at me, willing me to murder him. He offered the sword again. I could have simply taken it and ridden away, but lacked the presence of mind. A ghostly voice seemed to whisper in my ear, urging me to kill the man kneeling before me.

  “I am many things, Majesty,” I said, “but not an assassin. Give me the sword freely, without condition, or not at all.”

  The king’s face screwed up in rage. “Will no-one obey me?” he howled, “am I to be mocked and insulted by former slaves?”

  I was unmoved. His tantrums no longer had the power to threaten. He made for a wretched, laughable sight, like an overgrown infant wailing for his rattle.

  “No insult was intended,” I replied calmly, “but I will not put an end to you.”

  Gelimer made a whining noise in the back of his throat and started to crawl towards me on all fours. “Please,” he begged, “if you carried my head back to Belisarius, he would heap honours
and riches on you! Think of what you are throwing away!

  His nephew had heard enough. “Shame!” cried Euages, putting himself between us, “for shame, uncle. Get up, and stop making a spectacle of yourself.”

  Suitably admonished, Gelimer slowly rose to his feet and slid Caledfwlch back into its sheath.

  “We shall go to Hippo Regius,” said Euages, “and send word to the Visigoths. As you said, uncle, this war is not over.”

  I was amused by his assertiveness, and how meekly Gelimer allowed his nephew to take control. Euages was barely twelve years old and already cut a more royal figure.

  Two days later we reached Hippo Regius, which was like a smaller version of Constantinople basking on the African coast. It was a prosperous place, or had been, with a number of splendid Roman-style villas near the city gates and the seafront. Like Carthage, the walls were in a ruinous state, and I doubted they could withstand one determined assault from Belisarius’s infantry.

  Gelimer, whose spirits had revived a little, made himself known to the guards on the gate and told them to fetch Boniface, the Vandal officer he had left in charge of the city.

  Boniface soon appeared on the decaying rampart above the main gates. He was a big, fleshy man, and instead of armour wore light silken robes embroidered with gold. More gold flashed around his neck and on his fingers as he leaned on the parapet and squinted down at us.

  “Majesty,” he said, “one of your former guards brought us the news a couple of hours ago. It seems your campaign against the Romans has not been a resounding success.”

  Gelimer swallowed hard before replying. “Open the gates,” he cried, “the Romans will soon be here, and we must put the city in a state of defence.”

  “A state of defence, Majesty? The city garrison is a rabble of citizen militia and watchmen. It is all I can do to keep them sober. The walls are falling to pieces. That boy who rides with you could put his fist through them.”

  He spread his hands to indicate the vast empty space behind Gelimer. “Where are your legions, dread king? Where are your lancers, your spearmen, your mighty engines of war? All gone. Scattered to the four winds, or food for vultures.”

  Gelimer’s neck suffused with angry blood. “I am not interested in your rhetoric, Boniface,” he yelled, “open these gates, I command you!”

  Boniface sadly shook his head. “No,” he said, “you command nothing anymore. When the Romans come, I shall open the gates to them, and bargain for whatever concessions they are willing to yield. There has been too much bloodshed. Not one more Vandal shall die for the sake of your vanity.”

  The fallen king went berserk. He reached new heights of eloquence in his condemnation of Boniface, and promised violent and disgusting retribution. The reason for his anger was twofold. Not only had Boniface defied him to his face, but the last of the royal treasure was inside the city. The treasure was Gelimer’s only means of raising a new army to fight the Romans, and of buying the support of the Visigoths.

  Boniface waited patiently until the king had to pause for breath. “You must leave now,” he said, “the Romans will be here soon – I fancy I can see the dust of their cavalry on the horizon – and I am not used to being threatened. Go, before I permit my archers to use you for target practice.”

  Gelimer railed and cursed some more, to no avail. As a last resort he burst into tears, which earned him nothing but the laughter of the men on the walls. With a final curse and a shake of his fist, he turned away from the city and spurred his horse west, towards a distant range of mountains.

  His nephew and I followed, though there was nothing to stop me from leaving them and riding to join the Romans that were undoubtedly advancing on Hippo Regius.

  I did stop for a moment, and shaded my eyes to peer east. There was a cloud of dust visible on the horizon, and I glimpsed sunlight reflecting off advancing spearheads.

  I was torn between two possible futures. To follow Gelimer was by far the least desirable option, but the madman still had my sword.

  With a heavy sigh, I turned my face away from the east and rode after the king.

  Chapter 21

  Gelimer took us deep into the mountainous region known as the Khroumirie, near the border of Tunisia. This was no rocky desolation, but mostly covered in thick forest and well-watered by a network of rivers flowing into the sea to the north.

  The king had fallen into one of his black moods. During the journey he was a silent, hangdog figure, and did not respond to any of my questions. His nephew, a brave and lively youth and deserving of a better kinsman, was more forthcoming.

  “Do you see that peak?” he said, pointing to a particularly steep and craggy peak, its high summit wreathed in clouds, “that is Mount Papua. There is an ancient town on its northern crest, now in ruins and inhabited by a tribe of Moors. I believe my uncle means to take refuge there.”

  “The Moors?” I exclaimed. “But they deserted him at Tricamarum. He surely cannot trust them.”

  “Perhaps not, but my uncle has been generous to this particular tribe in the past. They may be savages, but they have their own code of honour. A little crude and warped by civilised standards, maybe, but it exists. His only other choice is to leave Africa and travel to Spain, in the hope of raising support there.”

  “I will not abandon my kingdom,” growled Gelimer. Those were the first words he had uttered since we were turned away from Hippo Regius.

  “Majesty,” I said, spurring my horse alongside his, “what use is further resistance? The Romans have broken your army in two battles, and Boniface has stolen your treasure. You have nothing left to fight with. Belisarius will offer you honourable terms of surrender.”

  Gelimer’s face, which had aged years in a few days, creased into a bitter smile. “Take another look at that mountain,” he said, “it cannot be accessed, save by a narrow ravine that is easily defended. Up there, a handful of men could hold off the world in arms.”

  I looked at Mount Papua. Gelimer was right, it seemed defensible enough, and a lot of men would die attempting to storm it. More wasted lives, in a war that had already wasted too many.

  A war that could be ended at a stroke, said an inner voice.

  My eyes strayed to Gelimer’s skinny neck. The Heruli had taught me how to throttle a man with my bare hands, and in the case of Gelimer I reckoned it would take very little effort. Euages would try and stop me, but a twelve-year old boy wasn’t much of a threat.

  Arthur would have done it. He slew his own son. He did what was necessary.

  But I was not Arthur. I was not forged of his metal. Did that make me degenerate or enlightened? I could not be certain. All I knew was that I could not kill in cold blood, even for the good of others.

  We reached the lower reaches of the mountain, and from there led our weary horses on foot. The way became ever more steep and narrow, until we were walking in single file along a trail that wound on endlessly until it vanished into the mists.

  “See there,” cried Gelimer, indicating the jagged walls that rose up either side of the trail, “there will be Moorish sentries watching us from the summit of those, depend on it. If they don’t like the look of us, expect a sudden shower of rocks.”

  He sounded almost cheerful at the prospect of being stoned to death from above. It was not courage that drove him, I reminded myself, but madness: the same madness that had driven me to try and kill Gelimer at Decimum instead of fleeing with my comrades, and had brought me to this lethal desolation.

  We had not progressed much further before someone whistled up ahead, and figures emerged from cover. They turned out to be Moors, an even poorer set than those I had seen at Tricamarum, barefoot and clad in cloaks and tunics made of coarse wool.

  Gelimer gave a cry when he saw them, and ran towards the leading Moor with his arms spread wide. I half-expected them to cut him down with their javelins, but instead the Moorish chief grinned and accepted his embrace. They spoke rapidly in a language I did not understand, punctuated by mu
ch laughter and hand-clasping, while the chief’s warriors ran suspicious eyes over me and Euages.

  “Come,” said Gelimer, beckoning at us, “this tribe are my friends, and will make us welcome here.”

  I was still wary, and remained so as I laboured up the increasingly difficult slope, trying not to look at the sheer walls that dropped away to unfathomable depths on either side. Mount Papua was as impregnable a natural fortress as one could wish for, and surely immune from any direct assault.

  “If Gelimer hopes that Belisarius will break his teeth on these jagged cliffs,” I said to Euages, “then he is doomed to disappointment. The general is a pragmatist. He will starve us out.”

  “His soldiers will grow old and grey before that happens,” the boy replied confidently, “the Moors know how to sustain themselves, even up here. They have endured many sieges, and every one has failed.”

  I could see why, especially during the final stage of the ascent, when the trail ran out and the Moors employed ropes and iron braces to reach Medenes.

  This had once been a walled town of some import, though I could not understand why or how anyone would choose to build a town in such a remote and inaccessible spot. Euages pointed out to me another road that led to the bottom, wider and easier than the trail we had used, but entirely fallen away in places and blocked by piles of rubble.

  “The Moors deliberately blocked the old road,” he explained, “so the only way to reach Medenes is to climb. Or fly, but I doubt even the Romans have mastered that.”

  The town itself was in a ruinous state. Most of the encircling walls were broken and decayed, and the roofless buildings home to nothing save nesting birds. The Moors preferred to squat inside their camel-hide tents. Clusters of tents were scattered about the otherwise empty streets, little enclaves of barbarism amid the ruin of civilisation.

  I made the best of these rough lodgings, hoping that Gelimer could not possibly hold out for more than a few weeks. Winter was coming on, and the Moorish scouts reported that the Romans were encamped at the foot of the mountain. From the description of the Roman soldiers they gave to Gelimer, I found that we were besieged by Pharas and his Heruli.