Siege of Rome by David Pilling

cathedral before the ceremony. However, when news reached them of the rebel host gathered at Mount Auras, they threw aside all caution and forswore their allegiance to Rome.”
       Belisarius could contain himself no longer. “ And what in the hells were you doing, while all this was going on?” he demanded through gritted teeth.
       I had never seen him so angry. His sallow cheeks had turned the colour of fresh steak, and his fists were clenched until the bony knuckles turned white. A thick blue vein throbbed dangerously on his forehead.
       “I was planning to march on the rebels, sir,” Solomon replied hastily, “but the conspiracy in Carthage took me by surprise. The Arians took to the streets at night. They smashed and plundered the houses of wealthy citizens and slaughtered all in their path, regardless of age, rank or degree. I tried to raise the garrison to sally out against them, but our men were seized with terror, and refused to move. When the mutineers forced the doors of the palace, I was obliged to flee for my life, and take refuge in a chapel. Procopius and a few loyal attendants fled with me. When dawn broke, and the mutineers were drowsy with wine and murder, we crept down to the harbour and stole a boat.”
       “And so came here,” said Belisarius. He pressed his fingertips together and held them to his lips for a moment. I watched him in silence, wondering what even that superb military mind could conceive to reverse such a disaster.
       “ How many of our ships are ready to sail immediately?” he asked suddenly.
       “Just your flagship, sir,” I replied, “the rest of our fleet is either being re-fitted, or scattered among the other Sicilian ports.”
       Just for a second, the briefest of seconds, I thought his resolution faltered. A shadow crawled over his face, but then vanished.
       “My galley can carry no more than a hundred men,” he said briskly, “but that will have to do. We sail for Carthage. Now.”
       He turne d on his heel and strode to the door. I and my fellow guardsman exchanged panicked glances and hurried after him down the corridor outside.
       “ Sir,” I cried, struggling to keep pace with his long legs, “forgive my presumption, but how can you hope to retake North Africa with just a hundred men?”
       Belisarius didn’t even break step. “No questions, Coel,” he snapped, “my forebears never brooked questions from their subordinates. I should have you flogged. My God, would the likes of Agrippa or Agricola have put up with junior officers bleating at them? Roman discipline is much decayed.”
       In this mood, it was impossible to tell if he was joking. “Summon my personal guard,” he added, “I will take a hundred of the best with me. Once we reach Carthage, I will call upon the garrison to join me. I left two thousand men to defend the city. More than enough.”
       A host of objections flew to my lips, and stayed there. I knew the general was fond of me, and also knew that he would have the skin flayed off my back if I irked him any further. Leaving him to bellow for his armour, I ran down to the barracks to rouse his guard.
       We hurriedly assembled on the drill-yard outside the palace. Belisarius soon appeared, buckling on his breastplate and trailed by a group of officers, including Photius. The godlike young man looked immaculate in a gleaming silver breastplate and plumed helm, as though he had been waiting in his armour for the order to march.
       His personal guard were formed into an old-fashioned maniple or cohort of five hundred men, divided into six centuries of eighty men each. They were the cream of his Veterans and bucelarii, or men like me who had performed well enough in past campaigns to be admitted to their ranks. Above all, we were men Belisarius felt he could trust on the battlefield and off it.
       “ First Century, with me,” he shouted as our men tumbled into line, “the rest,