dismissed.”
I was technically appointed to the Third Century, but there was no question of me staying behind.
The eighty men of the First followed the general as he hurried down to the docks. There were a few Egyptian sailors lounging near the jetty where Belisarius’ ship was moored. He pressed these unfortunates into service, roaring at them to get aboard and make ready to sail, if they valued their lives. Abandoning their games of dice, the Egyptians scrambled aboard the galley and started hauling on ropes.
We followed, pounding in double file up the gangplank. It felt as though I had barely drawn breath since Belisarius threatened to have me flogged. The wind was set fair, and my stomach gave a lurch as the mainsail billowed and the steersman turned the ship’s prow south.
Over a hundred miles of open sea lay between Syracuse and Carthage. Our ship sped through the sparkling blue waters like a dolphin, propelled by Heaven-sent winds and the fierce will of Belisarius. He stood at the prow, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the western horizon.
Meanwhile I clung to the side and emptied my breakfast into the sea. I hated myself for showing such weakness, especially in front of my comrades, even though they tactfully looked away.
“God preserve my strength,” I muttered between dry heaves, touching the hilt of Caledfwlch for luck. I would need all of my grandsire’s warlike skill and resolve when we reached Carthage.
We started early in the morning, and arrived within sight of the Tunisian coast just before dusk. The scattered lights of Carthage lit up the dark mass of the coastline, like thousands of yellow stars gleaming in the night sky.
Belisarius called me over to his side. “There,” he said, pointing to the so uth of the city, “the rebel host.”
I clung to a rope and squinted at a smaller gathering of lights, several miles distant of the city. If Belisarius was right, the rebels had quit Carthage and set up camp on the desolate plains outside.
“Perhaps our soldiers in the garrison found their courage, and forced them out,” I said.
“We shall soon find out,” he replied, “I mean to sail into the harbour and announce my presence. If we are greeted with rocks and curses, then at least we shall know who holds the city.”
Our ship ghosted into the bay of Carthage. No horns or trumpets greeted our arrival, but there was no hail of missiles either. When the ship reached the chain that acted as a boom, Belisarius ordered the imperial flag to be hoisted on the mainmast, and his trumpeter to announce our arrival with several loud blasts.
Lights flared along the sea-walls that defended the harbour to north and south. I stood in the front rank of guards behind Belisarius on the foredeck, wincing as my bowels dissolved in sickness and fear. At any moment I expected the bombardment to start, and our ship to be smashed to pieces.
Instead a smal l boat put out from the harbour and rowed slowly towards us. A man stood up in the belly of the boat and held a lantern aloft. The light illuminated his face, showing a youthful, bearded visage, his cheeks scarred with tattoos I recognized from my time among the Heruli.
“ Who are you?” he called out in a thick Germanic accent.
“General Flavius Belisarius!” replied Belisarius in his best parade-ground bark, “and you will sal ute a superior officer!”
The soldier’s face lit up in a grin. “General!” he cried, saluting, “thank God! We had hoped for your comin g. Where is the rest of your fleet, sir?”
Belisarius thr ew up his hands in exasperation. “Am I a general or a schoolmaster? Every man thinks he can ask questions of me. Turn your boat around, soldier. Inform your comrades that Belisarius is here, and expects every man in the garrison to be armed and ready to ride out at dawn.”
“It could be a trap,” warned Bessas as the boat rowed back to
I was technically appointed to the Third Century, but there was no question of me staying behind.
The eighty men of the First followed the general as he hurried down to the docks. There were a few Egyptian sailors lounging near the jetty where Belisarius’ ship was moored. He pressed these unfortunates into service, roaring at them to get aboard and make ready to sail, if they valued their lives. Abandoning their games of dice, the Egyptians scrambled aboard the galley and started hauling on ropes.
We followed, pounding in double file up the gangplank. It felt as though I had barely drawn breath since Belisarius threatened to have me flogged. The wind was set fair, and my stomach gave a lurch as the mainsail billowed and the steersman turned the ship’s prow south.
Over a hundred miles of open sea lay between Syracuse and Carthage. Our ship sped through the sparkling blue waters like a dolphin, propelled by Heaven-sent winds and the fierce will of Belisarius. He stood at the prow, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the western horizon.
Meanwhile I clung to the side and emptied my breakfast into the sea. I hated myself for showing such weakness, especially in front of my comrades, even though they tactfully looked away.
“God preserve my strength,” I muttered between dry heaves, touching the hilt of Caledfwlch for luck. I would need all of my grandsire’s warlike skill and resolve when we reached Carthage.
We started early in the morning, and arrived within sight of the Tunisian coast just before dusk. The scattered lights of Carthage lit up the dark mass of the coastline, like thousands of yellow stars gleaming in the night sky.
Belisarius called me over to his side. “There,” he said, pointing to the so uth of the city, “the rebel host.”
I clung to a rope and squinted at a smaller gathering of lights, several miles distant of the city. If Belisarius was right, the rebels had quit Carthage and set up camp on the desolate plains outside.
“Perhaps our soldiers in the garrison found their courage, and forced them out,” I said.
“We shall soon find out,” he replied, “I mean to sail into the harbour and announce my presence. If we are greeted with rocks and curses, then at least we shall know who holds the city.”
Our ship ghosted into the bay of Carthage. No horns or trumpets greeted our arrival, but there was no hail of missiles either. When the ship reached the chain that acted as a boom, Belisarius ordered the imperial flag to be hoisted on the mainmast, and his trumpeter to announce our arrival with several loud blasts.
Lights flared along the sea-walls that defended the harbour to north and south. I stood in the front rank of guards behind Belisarius on the foredeck, wincing as my bowels dissolved in sickness and fear. At any moment I expected the bombardment to start, and our ship to be smashed to pieces.
Instead a smal l boat put out from the harbour and rowed slowly towards us. A man stood up in the belly of the boat and held a lantern aloft. The light illuminated his face, showing a youthful, bearded visage, his cheeks scarred with tattoos I recognized from my time among the Heruli.
“ Who are you?” he called out in a thick Germanic accent.
“General Flavius Belisarius!” replied Belisarius in his best parade-ground bark, “and you will sal ute a superior officer!”
The soldier’s face lit up in a grin. “General!” he cried, saluting, “thank God! We had hoped for your comin g. Where is the rest of your fleet, sir?”
Belisarius thr ew up his hands in exasperation. “Am I a general or a schoolmaster? Every man thinks he can ask questions of me. Turn your boat around, soldier. Inform your comrades that Belisarius is here, and expects every man in the garrison to be armed and ready to ride out at dawn.”
“It could be a trap,” warned Bessas as the boat rowed back to
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