Siege of Rome by David Pilling Read Free Book Online

Sicily was effectively complete. Leaving a strong garrison to hold the city, he marched south to Syracuse, an ancient city in the south-east corner of the island.
       The Gothic governor yielded it up without the faintest show of resistance, and Belisarius entered in triumph at the head of his bucelarii. I rode close behind him. My sickness had passed completely, and my spirits were buoyed by the rapturous reception.
       By now our commander’s fame had spread to every corner of Sicily. The people of Syracuse flocked to welcome and applaud the conqueror of Africa and hail him as a new Caesar. Belisarius knew how to court popularity, and scattered gold coins and medals among the adoring crowds as he rode through the streets.  
       My joy was tempered with caution. The chants of Caesar! Caesar! were disquieting. Rome already had a Caesar in the form of Justinian, and it wouldn’t take much for the Emperor’s suspicions of Belisarius to flare hot again. He had his spies among our army. If Belisarius gloried too much in the acclaim of the mob, they would go racing back to Constantinople to pour fresh rumours of treason into Justinian’s ears.
       Belisarius took up residence in the governor’s palace. There he received a steady flow of Gothic officers and diplomats from all over Sicily, come to bend the knee before him and swear allegiance to the Empire.
       He took pains to dress in the plain garb of a soldier, and display no signs of arrogance or pretensions above his station. To no avail. The Goths insisted on addressing him in the most servile manner, as though he were indeed the Emperor instead of his representative. One or two even called him Caesar to his face.
       I stood beside his chair as the Goths filed into the audience chamber. They were a beautiful people, tall and strongly-made, with auburn hair and fresh, clear-eyed features. The contrast with our swarthy, stunted eastern soldiers was marked, and I sometimes noticed the Goths glancing at us with contempt.
       How, I could almost hear them thinking, have we been conquered by these dwarves?
       It was a question my own ancestors must have asked themselves, after the Roman legions of old had defeated Caradog, the last native British chief in arms, and sent him in chains to Rome.
       When business was done for the day, and the last Goth had departed, Belisarius relaxed gratefully in his chair and yawned.
       “Wine, in Heaven’s name ,” he croaked, massaging his dry throat. I poured some from a silver jug and handed him the goblet. He downed it one swallow, wiped his lips, and grinned at me.
       “Lend me your sword, Coel,” he asked, stretching out his hand.
       “Come,” he said impatiently when I hesitated, “do you think I am going to steal it? I merely wish to hold the thing for a moment.”
       Reluctantly, I drew Caledfwlch and placed the hilt in his hand. He held the blade vertically before him and gazed at his reflection in the oiled and polished steel.
       “I came, I saw, I conquered,” he murmured, “but unlike you, Julius, I lost not a single man.”
       He weighed the sword in his hand, holding it at different angles and examining the eagles stamped into the hilt.
       “I thought I might feel something,” he said, handing it back to me, “some tingle of power. Foolish. A sword is just a sword, no matter how many illustrious hands have wielded it. A tool for killing people.”
       “I think otherwise, sir,” I said, hurriedly sliding Caledfwlch back into the sheath, “part of my grandsire’s soul rests inside this blade. I am certain of that. Perhaps Julius Caesar’s as well.”
       He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “It must be crowded in there. Your belief smacks of paganism, Coel . A man’s soul cannot be hacked up like a loaf of bread. It is pure and indivisible.”
       “Oh God,” he added, yawning again and stretching his long limbs, “let us not discuss such weighty matters. I have