‘Solomon, the cavalry. An immediate charge and do not try to hold them back, let them loose, it is time for fear to do its work.’
Even Solomon, a man who trusted Flavius Belisarius absolutely, hesitated to execute that command. The few horses they had were their best men.
‘Do as I say. Now!’
Not all the dust in the air was now coming from what was blown off the land. As much was being generated by the untidy manoeuvres Stotzas was seeking to carry out, with men and horses stamping up a cloud. The sound of the horns seemed to cause the whole thing to freeze as everyone stopped to see what they portended, for not all knew. Those who did, ex-imperial soldiers, recognised the advance when they heard it and it was not coming from those close to Stotzas. Aware an attack was coming they sought to rush to where they had been told to deploy and that turned disorder into mayhem.
It was hard to see beyond his own cavalry lining up to charge, but there was a definite ripple along the line of the rebels and it presaged the flight of those who were not familiar with battle. They began to break and run, which spread to those who should have known better. But panic is contagious and that was what happened now.
Before the Belisarius cavalry had really got going the entire rebel force was in flight, the plain before his eyes a mass of fleeing men who, when they reached their encampment, did not stop to gather their possessions but carried on and abandoned them. When Flavius led his troops into that he found they had also left behind any monies they had sequestered as well as the women with whom many an imperial soldier hoped to acquire inherited land.
There could be no pursuit beyond that, Flavius lacked the numbers, but the work had been done; he had every confidence that once broken that force would not again combine, for there would be no end of mutual recrimination and Stotzas and his other mutiny leaders, if they had any sense, would be looking for a place where they could go beyond the reach of Roman revenge.
Hubris is quick to strike when any man feels too pleased with what he has achieved; as famed for his modesty as much as his military skill, Flavius Belisarius would not have been human had he not been aware that it was his name that had been as much the cause of success as any other factor. Had Stotzas not struck his camp and fled as soon as he heard of his return? So the man who rode back into Carthage was entitled to a little pride.
That lasted no more than the time it takes to get through the gate: there was now an uprising in Sicily, another mutiny, these with troops he had not long left and caused by much the same reason; a lack of pay. He was gone by the time the news arrived that Stotzas had managed to reform his rabble — clearly his tongue outbid his skill on a battlefield — and Marcellus, the man left behind in command as dux, feeling they were dealing with an enemy who would be easy to overcome, set out to finish what had failed to be completed by the departed Flavius Belisarius.
The name said a great deal. Marcellus was the offspring of an old patrician family that could trace its roots back to the Palatine Hill in Rome and even to the days of the Republic. His rise in the army had been as swift as befitted the influence his relatives could bring to bear and his pride reflected both his background and the feeling of natural authority that belonged to his class.
When they found and confronted the rebels, Stotzas asked to be allowed to address the troops Marcellus led, which included foederati, bucellarii and Gepid mercenaries. Thinking the rebel was about to plead for forgiveness, permission was granted, for such a man as Marcellus, trained in rhetoric, could not conceive that someone so low born might have the gift of persuasion.
In a rousing speech Stotzas listed the grievances that had driven him to mutiny and these were matters as yet unresolved in any part of the imperial army in North Africa. He then asked that the men join him instead of fighting him. Those Marcellus led and Belisarius before him had declined to mutiny through caution, not out of love for Justinian or the empire, and they were swayed; soon the dux found his army melting away.
Aware that he faced annihilation, Marcellus and his inferior commanders abandoned those still loyal and took refuge in a church, from which Stotzas, now in command of both forces combined, offered them safe passage to Carthage. As they exited the church and left sanctified ground he killed them.
Back in Sicily, Flavius had managed to restore order through his personality, reputation for honesty, as well as his military prowess. He was aided by the arrival of a ship bearing that which he had insisted be sent from Constantinople: gold to pay his troops. His other demand had been acceded to as well; money was on its way to Carthage and with it came fresh troops that could confront any further trouble under an imperial nephew called Germanus, who naturally sought advice from Flavius Belisarius.
‘You have money and soldiers. Use the first to bribe and the latter for battle.’
‘Stotzas?’
‘Is not a general, so if he feels he will face an army he will think of himself first.’
‘It seems wrong to bribe a mutineer.’
‘It is, but, Germanus, it is also wise. Detach Stotzas from his men if you can, kill him if you cannot and if you feel the need for support I am no more than two days away by galley.’
It was good to hear his advice being acted upon; Flavius was not sure that the news that he got was as cut and dried as the advice he gave but the thing was resolved. Stotzas had abandoned his army after his second attempt to take Carthage was rebuffed. Was it brought about by the amount of gold he received or the level of fear he felt for his hide? It mattered not; Stotzas acted as had been predicted and many of his followers returned to their duty once they were promised their pay. The rump were brought to battle and annihilated.
‘I am free to act at last, Photius, all I await now is my orders from Justinian.’
Procopius had an opinion to air and he did so. ‘Am I at liberty to point out, General, that you have many fewer soldiers at your disposal now than were sent with you to North Africa? And the situation in Italy is not as propitious as it was only months past, added to which it is a much larger task.’
‘You can point it out to me, Procopius, but I am not the one to decide.’
Flavius knew he was at the mercy of events elsewhere, in Dalmatia and Illyricum. Then there were the Franks and the Burgundians; had Justinian managed to get from them the backing he wanted? The wisdom of leaving Sicily and landing in a hostile Italy were not hard to perceive. What he did not have was the whole picture; that only existed in Constantinople and the machinations of the Emperor.
Looking at Photius, Flavius naturally thought of Antonina, delivered of a daughter whom she had named Ioannina, acceding to his request. She did not know it was in honour of Flavius’s old friend and the man he thought of as his saviour. Ohannes, his father’s elderly domesticus, had protected him and guided Flavius when the entire forces of the most powerful magnate in Moesia were ranged against him and when he was no more of an age than the boy he was sat with.
Memories flooded his mind as they often did and he could not but believe, in reflections on his life so far and the fact he had survived, that God had spared him for a purpose and perhaps that lay across the Straits of Messina. Was it his destiny, albeit for the glory of Justinian, to reconquer the old heartland of the empire of which his father Decimus had been so proud?
If it was, and in memory of him, it was fitting.