The enraged Goths, now reinforced from their camp, naturally followed as fast as they could, to run straight into a barrage of missiles: stones, from pebbles to head-removing rocks, as well as flaming tar-soaked wads from every catapult the city possessed. For those who survived that and came too close, there was another hail of arrows to drive them off.
Like some omen that manifested itself to celebrate such a success, the next day brought a body of two thousand reinforcements, cavalry and barbarian foederati, every one of them an experienced horse archer. These men had been on the way before he wrote to Justinian and they came with assurances that more would follow. The commanders who led them, Martinus and Valerian, fitted seamlessly into the structure of the army yet within their arrival lay the seeds of a problem that Flavius did not appreciate until it became too pronounced to easily counter.
This being hidden for now, it became a regular occurrence to send out parties of mounted archers to prick the Goths into a reaction and one that always cost them dearly, this while Flavius reckoned his own losses to be calculable on one hand. Witigis tried to respond in a like manner, sending forward through the cultivated fields and vineyards a five-hundred strong force to occupy a hilltop just out of catapult range of the walls.
They barely had time to settle before Flavius sent out a party double their number to contest their possessions, not pressing any attack to drive them by main force from the summit of the mound but hammering them with such a degree of archery that they were compelled to withdraw. Now caught in the open and in retreat the Goths fell to the heavy cavalry, who at first plagued them with more arrows and then got amongst them to do slaughter.
A good half of their number failed to make it back to their camp and the haul in both horses and armour was substantial, so much so that Flavius began to gift many of his foot soldiers their own mount, initiating training in cavalry manoeuvres to ensure they understood his basic tactics, given he suspected that if victory came to him, it would be with the clever employment of cavalry.
‘He cannot understand,’ opined Photius, with a degree of astonishment. ‘Is it not folly to make the same mistake over and over?’
The youngster and his stepfather were watching from the walls a repeat of what had previously occurred; Witigis had once more sent forth a body of troops to tempt the defenders. They had eagerly accepted the bait and delivered another crushing defeat that left the fields and hedgerows dotted with Goth bodies and brought another large equine haul into Rome.
‘He must be under pressure from his nobles,’ Flavius replied, using words that within days would come back to bite him. ‘Sometimes it is impossible for a man in command of an army to be seen to do nothing.’
Four times the Goth leader repeated his mistake, seeking to take the initiative away from the Byzantines and those he led paid the price. Finally he formulated a reaction that did not cost lives, no longer sending forward bodies to be slaughtered but merely to tempt and retire in good order. When Flavius sought to reprise his own previous tactics, the Goths employed a controlled charge by bodies of cavalry waiting for his men to emerge from one of the gates, the aim to drive them back, though never getting close enough to the catapults to be in danger.
Flavius had not deliberately favoured either his own comitatus or the newly arrived foederati but they had been the soldiers most engaged, such men being simply the best troops available for the hit-and-retire tactics he was employing. Yet it was now obvious that such methods had run their course; Witigis would no longer take the bait and the siege once more descended into stalemate.
Meetings of his senior subordinates were a daily occurrence and usually they passed off with little in the way of disagreement; these experienced commanders, now including many who had acted independently prior to serving with Flavius, tended to bow to his reputation and agree to whatever course he suggested. That, as the weeks went by with nothing to show, began to fracture and a resentment not previously noticed began to surface; those he had not used in his expeditions felt left out.
Watching others enjoy the fruits of the Belisarius tactics might have been cheering initially but within the bulk of the army there emerged a degree of grumbling. If it was based on envy it was also underpinned by a confidence that came from the results being achieved by the few. Surely if small bodies of troops could inflict such damage on their enemies the whole army could beat the Goths in proper battle.
‘It is as well to recall,’ Flavius insisted, when this was raised, ‘that even with their losses they still outnumber us by a factor of three to one.’
It was Constantinus who responded. ‘It’s not just our own men complaining, Flavius Belisarius, we have the citizens of the city clamouring to be part of the fight and they number enough to redress the balance.’
‘Quality?’ Flavius asked, thick black eyebrows rising.
‘Do they have to do any more than stand their ground?’
‘I have often seen infantry fail in that regard, Constantinus.’
‘With respect, what we face are not open landscapes and highly mobile enemies. We are constrained by walls and rivers, but so are our opponents. I know you as a general who likes to pick your field of battle. Here, outside Rome, you have that choice.’
The response was a murmur of assent from all of those gathered, each one in command of a substantial body of the troops that made up the army. Flavius had always been careful when outlining his plans to make them sound like suggestions rather than orders, for, as a commanding general it was necessary to carry such stalwarts with you and diplomacy was as important.
Up till now that had held but Flavius had ever been aware that, though he was discreet in his feelings, Constantinus chafed at his lack of independence, which he had hitherto enjoyed before joining in the Italian campaign. The relationship between a commander and his immediate inferior can often be a fraught one; should Flavius fall Constantinus would assume command.
They were very different men from vastly dissimilar backgrounds. Flavius with his black hair and beard, naturally dark-skinned, that made more so by exposure to the elements, looked like what he was, the son of a one-time common soldier who had died with the rank of centurion. Decimus Belisarius had been tasked to hold the Danube border with fewer than a hundred men, and if his son had risen swiftly to command armies of many thousands it had been with the aide of Justinian, and that had to be the cause of disquiet in the breast of certain people.
His second in command seemed to have a golden quality to his countenance, with a handsome face topped by blond curled hair going suitably grey. Constantinus was a patrician to his toes and he looked it. Not for him the battered armour of the men he served with; with his slim figure and effortless grace he dressed as what he was. He had been bred to command armies, and if not that, to occupy some important office of state – it went with his bloodline.
Up till now there had been few disagreements. The campaign and subsequent sieges, both those pressed and this one endured, had dictated the way matters worked out, but that murmur was telling; such a reaction from such a body would not have been advanced had there been no need for discussion. That was proved when Valentinus took up the argument. He, like Constantinus, had to be afforded attention; he too was a general in his own right who had once commanded an army in Illyricum.
‘We have not lost a fight against the Goths since they came to the walls and the supply situation is far from perfect. A swift end would be suitable.’