station, you hear? You are my subaltern. Contradict me in front of the men, question my decisions and orders, and I’ll take you apart with my fists. Got that?”
“Of course, sir,” I replied.
In truth, I knew how to handle men like Hildiger. I had served under Mundus, an even bigger and more intimidating German and a far greater soldier, and done well enough.
We advanced north as Belisarius instructed, following the Flaminian road, and avoided the Goths by swinging east to force a passage through the mountains.
These were guarded by the fortress of Petra Pertusa, but we gave its walls a wide berth and made our way through narrow, rocky defiles, guided by maps and a native shepherd Hildiger had bribed with a handful of silver.
Vitiges was either blind to our presence, or too much in a hurry to reach the safety of Ravenna to care overmuch. A mere thousand horse presented little threat to his army, and he made no attempt to prevent us reaching the sea-port of Ancona.
My relief at laying eyes on the city was tempered by the sight of the military camp spread out on the landward side of its walls. At first I thought another Gothic army had landed in Italy, and was seized by despair, but then I saw the Roman banners fluttering among the neat lines of tents.
“ More reinforcements from Constantinople,” said Hildiger, “they must be. Strange. Belisarius made no mention of their arrival.”
Mystified, he ordered me to ride down to the camp and seek an audience with the ir commander. I obeyed, taking six men for an escort.
In fine old Roman style, the camp was surrounded by a ditch and a stockade. I was hailed by the sentinels on the gate. They were Heruls, and I merely had to display the faded tattoos on my right arm to gain their approval.
“I wish to see your general,” I cried.
“Welcome, friend,” one of them called back, “bring your men inside, and we’ll see about gaining an audience.”
I led my escort inside, and accepted the wineskin and lump of dry biscuit offered by the guards.
The possible identity of their commander puzzled me. All of Rome’s best commanders were already in Italy, or at least those I knew of. I judged there to be at least five thousand men inside the camp, probably more. The Emperor’s judgment was not always perfect, but he surely wouldn’t entrust an army to some inexperienced officer or court favourite.
Where, for that matter, had Justinian managed to find the men? He had always starved Belisarius of money and soldiers, claiming the Empire’s limited resources were already stretched to breaking point. Belisarius’ achievements, given this lack of support, were all the more remarkable.
The Heruls soon returned. “The general will see you,” said their captain, “but only you. Your men stay here.”
I shrugged, trying not to show my disqui et. “Very well. But I go armed.”
The captain made no objection, and took me through the camp towards the large pavilion in the centre. I took c areful note of the soldiers, their tents and gear and provisions.
The imperial eagle flew above the pavilion on a tall striped pole, and the walls of the pavilion itself were made of gold and purple silk , a princely bower for an important man to recline while his soldiers slept under rough canvas.
Two tall swordsmen in richly-decorated armour and crested helmets guarded the entrance. They were doryphori , elite soldiers trained in Constantinople, better-paid and equipped than the rest of the army. Only very rich men, aristocrats usually, could afford to hire them as part of a private retinue or bodyguard.
The Herul captain exchanged salutes with the guards, and ducked inside the heavy silken folds of the pavilion.
I followed, heart thumping, and found myself inside a miniature palace. A cloying, sickly scent of perfume and incense filled the air. The ground was covered by
“Of course, sir,” I replied.
In truth, I knew how to handle men like Hildiger. I had served under Mundus, an even bigger and more intimidating German and a far greater soldier, and done well enough.
We advanced north as Belisarius instructed, following the Flaminian road, and avoided the Goths by swinging east to force a passage through the mountains.
These were guarded by the fortress of Petra Pertusa, but we gave its walls a wide berth and made our way through narrow, rocky defiles, guided by maps and a native shepherd Hildiger had bribed with a handful of silver.
Vitiges was either blind to our presence, or too much in a hurry to reach the safety of Ravenna to care overmuch. A mere thousand horse presented little threat to his army, and he made no attempt to prevent us reaching the sea-port of Ancona.
My relief at laying eyes on the city was tempered by the sight of the military camp spread out on the landward side of its walls. At first I thought another Gothic army had landed in Italy, and was seized by despair, but then I saw the Roman banners fluttering among the neat lines of tents.
“ More reinforcements from Constantinople,” said Hildiger, “they must be. Strange. Belisarius made no mention of their arrival.”
Mystified, he ordered me to ride down to the camp and seek an audience with the ir commander. I obeyed, taking six men for an escort.
In fine old Roman style, the camp was surrounded by a ditch and a stockade. I was hailed by the sentinels on the gate. They were Heruls, and I merely had to display the faded tattoos on my right arm to gain their approval.
“I wish to see your general,” I cried.
“Welcome, friend,” one of them called back, “bring your men inside, and we’ll see about gaining an audience.”
I led my escort inside, and accepted the wineskin and lump of dry biscuit offered by the guards.
The possible identity of their commander puzzled me. All of Rome’s best commanders were already in Italy, or at least those I knew of. I judged there to be at least five thousand men inside the camp, probably more. The Emperor’s judgment was not always perfect, but he surely wouldn’t entrust an army to some inexperienced officer or court favourite.
Where, for that matter, had Justinian managed to find the men? He had always starved Belisarius of money and soldiers, claiming the Empire’s limited resources were already stretched to breaking point. Belisarius’ achievements, given this lack of support, were all the more remarkable.
The Heruls soon returned. “The general will see you,” said their captain, “but only you. Your men stay here.”
I shrugged, trying not to show my disqui et. “Very well. But I go armed.”
The captain made no objection, and took me through the camp towards the large pavilion in the centre. I took c areful note of the soldiers, their tents and gear and provisions.
The imperial eagle flew above the pavilion on a tall striped pole, and the walls of the pavilion itself were made of gold and purple silk , a princely bower for an important man to recline while his soldiers slept under rough canvas.
Two tall swordsmen in richly-decorated armour and crested helmets guarded the entrance. They were doryphori , elite soldiers trained in Constantinople, better-paid and equipped than the rest of the army. Only very rich men, aristocrats usually, could afford to hire them as part of a private retinue or bodyguard.
The Herul captain exchanged salutes with the guards, and ducked inside the heavy silken folds of the pavilion.
I followed, heart thumping, and found myself inside a miniature palace. A cloying, sickly scent of perfume and incense filled the air. The ground was covered by
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