But that reassuring consolation was about to be shattered. .
* Or Convent of Repentance — a refuge, founded by Theodora, for women forced into prostitution.
** Georgia.
† In the spring of 541.
* They proved, alas, to be only too well-founded.
** For this, also Antonina’s unbelievably steamy and tangled affair with Theodosius, see Notes for Chapter 19.
TWENTY-FOUR
Recover for us dominion over Italy
‘Know anything about this new king the Goths have just elected for themselves?’ Artabazus — commander-in-chief of the Field Army of Italy (an Armenian, as his olive complexion and delicate aquiline features hinted) — asked Bessas, his second-in command. The latter was an elderly Goth from Thrace, a veteran of many campaigns stretching back to Anastasius’ clashes with the Persians. The two men were seated in the commander’s pavilion near Faventia in Tuscia,* overlooking a smiling landscape — undulating hills clothed in forests of chestnut, valleys chequered with vineyards and olive groves. Around the pavilion the tents of the army stretched in orderly rows, the soldiers sleeping, cleaning kit, preparing supper, or, in the case of the younger ones, just skylarking.
‘Not much,’ grunted Bessas in reply, his battle-scarred old face framed by grizzled locks, worn long in the German fashion. ‘Except that he’s the nephew of Hildebad, the king the Goths chose after Belisarius left Italy eighteen months ago. Didn’t last long. Jealousy among the Gothic leaders, I heard, led to his assassination last year. Replaced by one Eraric, who wasn’t even a Goth, but a Rugian.’
‘And his reign was even shorter,’ observed Artabazus with a grin. ‘Murdered after five months. ‘That was when the Goths found out he was planning to cede their newly recreated kingdom to Justinian — in return for a fat pension and being allowed to settle in Constantinople as a patrician. Shades of Gelimer and Witigis. Anyway, what about this nephew of Hildebad?’
‘Young man, name of Totila. Scarcely out of his teens.’
‘This just gets better and better,’ chuckled Artabazus. ‘I’d give him even less time than Eraric. To a Goth, being ruled by an untried boy is only marginally better than being ruled by a woman. And that’s total anathema. You’ve only got to think of Amalasuntha and her poisonous offspring, Athalaric.’
‘In the case of Totila, I wouldn’t be too sure,’ mused Bessas. ‘They say he’s mature beyond his years; also he seems to have held some sort of command under his uncle. The Goths appear to think highly of him. And, what’s perhaps more worrying, so do many Romans, who have yet to be persuaded of the benefits of being back in the Empire. And who can blame them? What with Justinian’s army of tax-collectors hell-bent on making up for lost time, and our soldiers forced to turn to looting to supplement arrears of pay. If Totila succeeds in stamping his authority on his people, we could be in trouble. Both from the Goths and the Romans.’ The old warrior frowned and shook his head. ‘Whatever was Vitalius thinking about to let the Goths start up their kingship once again? Once you’ve beaten him, the one thing you don’t do with a German is give him a second chance. I should know — I’m German myself.’
‘Perhaps Vitalius wasn’t in charge long enough to stop the Goths regrouping,’ the other pointed out. ‘Or perhaps he thought that letting them elect their own King Log* would be enough to keep them quiet for the nonce. Our emperor’s crazy plan of switching around the top command hasn’t exactly helped. He was terrified, you know, that Belisarius would accept when the Goths offered to recognize him as Western emperor. Hence Justinian’s present policy of divide and rule regarding his generals. The man’s paranoid, afraid of his own shadow; you didn’t hear me say that, by the way. You yourself were appointed Magister Militum for a time, after Vitalius. Now it seems it’s my turn. Well, one thing I am determined to do before I’m phased out, is to nip this Gothic resurgence in the bud — before it has a chance to become a real threat.’
‘Totila’s army’s only ten miles north from here, according to the scouts’ report. You mean to take him on?’
‘I should say! A scratch force of only a few thousand Goths?’ Artabazus laughed scornfully. ‘He’s serving himself up to us on a plate. We should be able to bring him to battle tomorrow, when the Army of Italy will make short work of him. Then we can put an end to this nonsense of a renewed Gothic kingdom, once and for all.’
That night, Totila encamped his five thousand Goths — all that were brave (or desperate?) enough to follow him — at the head of a valley overlooking the Romans’ position.
‘At least three times our number,’ murmured Aligern, looking down at the distant rows of ‘butterflies’ glowing in the late sun — the eight-man leather tents the Romans carried on campaign. Aligern was an elder statesman, kinsman of the murdered Hildebad, and loyal supporter of that monarch’s nephew and successor. ‘It will take cunning as well as courage on our part, if we hope to have any chance of beating them.’ He glanced keenly at the tall, golden-haired young king standing beside him. ‘It may be Sire, that — for the present — discretion is the better part of valour. There would be no shame in withdrawing in order to build up our forces against a future, more evenly matched encounter. If we choose to fight them now, and are defeated — ’ Aligern shrugged, then added with a grim smile, ‘It would be the end of the Ostrogothic nation. Think well, Sire, before deciding.’
Cunning as well as courage, Totila repeated to himself. Courage — his men had that in overflowing measure. If bravery alone could win the day, victory was theirs. As with all Germans, every Gothic male was a warrior, schooled in the use of arms, nurtured on a tradition of heroic deeds and contempt for danger. But, again like all Germans, each Gothic warrior was eager for personal glory, and impatient of discipline. A trait that could have spelt disaster when, as his uncle’s swordbearer in his first command, he had taken Trabesium,* the only Roman-occupied fortification north of the Padus. He remembered when he had led his men against that mighty fortress on its rock two years ago. .
Perceiving some inner quality of self-belief or leadership in his nephew, Hildebad had let the boy take charge of the assault. Totila had found himself cajoling tough warriors two, or even three times his own age, into abandoning their desire to launch a head-on attack on the place — an action that would have proved suicidal against the town’s strong garrison and massive walls. Instead, with a blend of tact, humour, and firmness, he had persuaded them to accept an alternative manoeuvre — ascending, under cover of night, a steep path leading to an unguarded postern gate. The enterprise called for courage (clearly, the garrison thought the postern not worth the trouble of defending, thanks to its being sited above a precipitous ascent), teamwork, and, the hardest thing of all to instil in Germans — discipline. In addressing his men, Totila discovered that he had that most precious of gifts a leader can possess — charisma, the quality that makes men want to follow another, someone who can, by enthusiasm and example, unite his followers into a band of brothers sharing a common goal.
The operation had proceeded without a hitch, with Trabesium falling to the Goths.
‘I have decided, Aligern,’ Totila replied to his senior lieutenant. ‘Tomorrow, we must fight them. If we retreat now, our men will lose heart and begin to disperse. Any reputation I possess would soon be lost, and I’d probably end up sharing the same fate as my uncle or Eraric. Besides, I don’t believe the odds against us are as great as they might seem. The Army of Italy certainly outnumbers us — greatly so. But what of its quality? Belisarius has taken the cream of his troops to the east, leaving mainly mercenary units behind. Men whose only motive is gain, and who value their hides far above whatever cause they fight for. A hundred and sixty years ago, our ancestors defeated a vastly superior Roman army at Adrianople. Let us emulate their tactics.’