Flame of the West Read Free Page A

inside the city.”
       John hesitated. The city lay to the north-east, and we were following the section of highway that led straight to the port of Ostia. Just visible to the north was the section of ruined aqueduct that Vitiges had partially repaired and turned into a fortress, guarding the approach to Rome.
       “You,” said John, stabbing a finger at me, “remind me of your name.”
       “Coel ap Amhar ap Arthur,” I replied promptly.
       “Ah, yes. The general’s tame Briton. I have heard something of you. Brave and loyal, they say. Let us test those qualities. I want you to take five hundred men – the ones we levied in Campania will do – and ride north-east to assist Belisarius. The rest of our force will continue north and press on towards Ostia.”
       I stared at him, regretting my insolence of a moment earlier. “But, sir,” I protested, “I am a mere infantry officer, and have never commanded more than ten men in the field.”
       He smiled lazily at me. “Then here is an unrivalled opportunity to prove your worth. You ride rather well for an infantryman. Let us see how you lead.”
       John was the commander, and there was no gainsaying his orders. I turned away, trying to ignore the jealous stares of the more senior captains who should have been sent in my stead.
       Procopius touched my shoulder. “He thinks you will fail,” he whispered, “but I have every confidence in your ability. Do well, and you may receive your promotion sooner than we thought.”
       My orders were to lead my new command north, straight through the heart of the Gothic camp, and do as much damage to the enemy as possible before withdrawing. I was fairly certain John didn’t care about our fate – I was a mere Briton, a barbarian from the distant north, and my men were the scrapings of local garrisons – but wanted to ensure he got his two thousand cavalry to Ostia.
       Feeling giddy, I put myself at the head of the levies and glanced up at their banner , flapping limply in the slight wind. It displayed the double-headed Roman eagle, worked in golden thread against a red field.
       I had followed the eagle in a series of bloody campaigns , from North Africa to Sicily to Italy. For much of that time I had fought as a common soldier, free of the burden of rank and responsibility. My one stint as an officer, in charge of a handful of Heruls and Isaurians, had been mercifully brief. Arthur’s blood ran in my veins, but not his natural talent for leadership.
       Now John the Sanguinary had put me in charge of five hundred cavalry. My guts rumbled in panic as I trotted to the head of my new command. Swallowing, I raised my arm and nodded at the trumpeter to give the signal to advance.
       I led them on at the canter, skirting the ruins of the aqueduct and aiming for some open, flat ground with a large timber stockade to the north-west. If the Goths should suddenly spring on us, at least we would have room to manoeuvre.
       Tattered Gothic banners displaying their crude symbols of the horse and the bull flapped from the walls of the stockade, and the upper levels of the aqueduct-fortress.
       I glimpsed a few helmeted heads, and expected the timber gates of the stockade to yawn open at any moment, disgorging thousands of screaming Gothic cavalry. They are fine horsemen, though they have no mounted bowmen as good as our Huns and Heruls, and enjoyed a massive advantage in numbers. Over a hundred and fifty thousand Goths were encamped around the walls of Rome, an entire nation in arms.
       Nothing happened. The sentries ducked out of sight, and we thundered on past endless rows of empty tents and doused cooking fires.
       It was unnerving. The whole of that vast encampment, spread out on the fields south of Rome, was emptied of troops. It was not deserted: we rode past tents full of sick and wounded men, and somewhere a war-horn sounded the alarm, but there weren’t enough soldiers left to