‘Which were?’ Aligern’s tone sounded somewhat less pessimistic than before.
‘Essentially, the following. Instead of the usual wild charge, the Goths — under their leader, Fritigern — formed a defensive line against the Romans, who advanced in close order. A suprise cavalry attack by the Goths smashed into the Roman left wing, causing confusion and disorder with men being pushed back into each other, so that they were unable to manoeuvre. The Gothic line now advanced against the Roman ranks, jamming them even more closely together. Result — slaughter, then rout. So, what we must do is this. .’
‘Archers,’ groaned Aligern to Totila the following morning, as a long line of unarmoured men formed up in front of the Roman army. In what seemed almost a casual, unconcerned manner, they advanced in open order up the valley towards the Gothic line — a double row of spearmen forming a wall of shields flanked by woods, across the valley’s head. Clad in undyed linen tunics with indigo government roundels at hip and shoulder, bows and quivers slung carelessly on backs, the Roman archers looked curiously unthreatening. Yet both Gothic leaders knew just how devastating and demoralizing arrow-fire could prove, unless countered effectively.
‘Once that lot starts shooting, it’s going to take all your authority to stop our fellows from going after them,’ observed Aligern. ‘Which, of course, is what the Romans hope we’ll do.’
‘They must just stand and take it. As long as the men stay behind their shields, they’ll be all right — barring a few inevitable casualties; we must accept that. So long as we don’t react, they’ll call off their archers soon enough.’
So long as we don’t react, the young king repeated to himself. Everything depended on the Goths maintaining discipline, something that ran counter to their nature, but whose importance he had striven with every fibre to make them understand. While the shield-wall stayed intact, the enemy would be unable, on a narrow front, to bring his advantage of superior numbers to bear. Then, provided we can hold him. .
A hundred paces in front of the Goths’ formation, the archers halted then formed up in an extended line. Unhurriedly, they strung their bows — powerful, recurved, composite affairs of laminated wood and horn — nocked arrows, raised their shooting-arms to a steep angle, and drew the shafts to an anchor-point at the chin. Suddenly, they no longer looked innocuous, but deadly.
With a soft, whirring sound a flight of arrows arced towards the Gothic line, racing its speeding shadow on the ground to strike the wall of shields with a ripple of thuds. One or two andbahtos — retainers — cried out in pain or slumped to the ground; the great majority remained unharmed. After enduring several volleys however, the Goths began to grow restive, their line showing the first signs of losing cohesion, as individual warriors fought their instinct to rush forward and close with these cowards who dared fight only from a distance. Sensing the danger, Totila, golden hair swinging about his shoulders, strode along the line urging restraint, an arrow clanging off his Spangenhelm, while two others smacked into his shield. His words had the desired effect; everywhere, the shield-wall firmed and straightened.
Except at one point near the centre. Here, a group of Goths rushed forward. With the incline in their favour, they could expect to catch their tormentors before the archers could run back to the protection of their army. Instead there came a blur of movement in the Roman ranks, which opened to allow passage for a cloud of horsemen. Though only light cavalry, they were more than capable of dealing with an isolated group of the enemy.* Galloping through the scattering archers they were among the Goths in a flash, thrusting and slashing with their long spathae till not a man remained alive. It was a chilling, and salutary, object-lesson. Thereafter, no one in the shield-wall needed further encouragement to stay in line.
A trumpet sounded, recalling the archers and the horse. Now the Roman infantry rolled forward — rank upon rank of mailed soldiers, moving as one like some grim machine, or monster clad in iron scales. With a deafening clash the two lines came together, when began a deadly shoving-match, with victory destined for the side that did not break. The Goths — big fair-haired men — had the slope in their favour, while the woods at either end of their line meant that they could not be outflanked. Against this, their formation was only two deep compared with the Romans’ six; most were unarmoured, relying for protection solely on their oval wooden shields. Gradually, the greater weight of the Roman line began to tell; slowly, fighting stubbornly every yard of the way, the Goths found themselves being forced back.
Then, just when it seemed that a Roman victory was inevitable, the surprise that Totila had planned all along was sprung. Away to the flank, concealed from view until the moment it was needed, was the cream of Totila’s force — a body of heavy lancers, several hundred strong, armoured and equipped from the armoury of Trabesium, after that city’s capture. Now, thundering up the valley from its mouth they smashed into the Romans from behind, inflicting massive carnage and causing widespread confusion. Desperately pushing forward to escape those terrible lance-points, the rear ranks caused the ones in front to become jammed together. Soon the whole army had become a close-packed, struggling mass, in which men were unable to lift their weapons, or, losing their footing, were trodden underfoot to suffocate. In such a situation panic spreads like wildfire, and this scenario was no exception. With shocking suddenness, the Roman army broke and fled, not stopping in their flight until reaching safety behind the strong walls of Faventia.
For the Goths it was a famous victory.* News of it spread rapidly; men flocked to join Totila’s standard and within days his army had quadrupled in strength. Badly mauled though still intact, the Roman army withdrew south towards Florentia,** via the long Mugello valley. Here, Totila ambushed them, winning a second — and decisive — victory. Too distracted and demoralized to send out scouts, strung out in a straggling column along the length of the defile, the Romans fell easy prey to the Goths charging down upon them from the heights. Having sustained serious losses, the Roman army now broke up into separate sections (each commanded by a different general), which proceeded to take refuge in the fortresses of central Italy. Here, apprehensive and rudderless, they remained bottled up to lick their wounds.
Meanwhile, nothing less than a social revolution was sweeping the peninsula. All over Italy, those who had suffered the consequences of Justinian’s ‘liberation’: the merchants, the urban middle classes, and the peasants — ground between the upper and nether millstones of Alexander ‘the Scissors’ ruthless tax machine, and the casual plundering of East Roman troops — hailed Totila as a saviour. Like a second Spartacus, the young monarch divided up the great estates among the tenants, sweeping away crippling rents and corvees; freeing the slaves, who willingly enrolled in his army; cleansing the civil service of the corrupt and greedy officials who had run the administration very much with an eye to their own profit, and staffing it instead with humble Romans. Within a few short months, apart from Rome, Ravenna, and a few towns on the coast or in the central Apennines, the whole of Italy had fallen to the Goths. Only the senatorial class held out against Totila. To these, the young ‘barbarian’ continued to extend an olive branch (for he hoped eventually to bring them round), treating with kindness and respect all aristocrats who fell into his hands. Meanwhile the expulsion of landlords, freeing of slaves and ending of abuses went on apace, with ordinary Romans everywhere enthusiastically supporting their charismatic new champion.