Flame of the West Read Free Page B

oppose us. We might have plundered the baggage wagons and set the rest of the camp on fire, but I was no freebooter, and stuck to my orders.
       The sound of a gathering storm lured us north, towards the walls of Rome. As we drew closer, the sounds became more distinct; the rumble of hoofs, the shrieks of terrified horses and dying men, the scrape and clash of weapons - war-cries, screams, conflicting orders, war-horns sounding advance and retreat, the zip of arrows and barrage of drums. All the noise and chaos and terror of battle. It was a familiar, heady, intoxicating din, both terrifying and appealing, quickening a man’s blood at the same time as driving him almost mad with fear.
       I halted on a little rise overlooking the battlefield, drinking in the sight and sound of slaughter.
       Thus far in the Italian campaign, Belisarius had suffered only one defeat in battle against the Goths, and this was down to the cowardice and indiscipline of the Roman citizens who insisted on fighting alongside our men. He had learned his lesson, and I compare the battle I witnessed before the walls of Rome that day as akin to a skilled boxer holding off a heavier, clumsier opponent.
       O ur horse-archers swarmed forward, isolating bands of Gothic footmen and riding around them in circles. Stranded, the Goths could do nothing but duck behind their large wooden shields as arrows rained down on their heads. 
       The slow, heavily armoured Gothic cavalry lumbered forward, but our men swiftly retreated in good order, behind the safety of their own footmen. These were drawn up in six disciplined phalanxes in front of the Pincian Gate.
       Despite his overwhelming advantage in numbers, Vitiges’ only chance of victory wa s to break the iron wall of Roman infantry. He threw his horsemen against the lines of shields time and again, like waves lashing at a rocky shore. Time and again the Goths were repulsed, leaving the broken bodies of men and horses strewn about the bloody, churned-up ground. Any gaps in the Roman infantry squares were quickly filled, plugged with fresh bodies from the reserves Belisarius had drawn up behind the front lines.
       I could see the general’s banner, fluttering above the heads of the infantry. His golden-armoured figure would be at the head of his bucelarii, elite Roman cavalry, waiting for the Goths to tire so he could lead them forward in a shattering, all-out charge. It was the same tactic he had used against the Sassanids at Dara, and the Vandals at Tricamarum, and on both occasions proved devastatingly successful.
       It was midmorning, and the fighting had been going on some time. I thought Belisarius had advanced dangerously far outside the gates, beyond the defensive cover of the ditch. The Goths were concentrating their attacks on the exposed flanks of his infantry. If these were smashed the entire Roman line might be rolled up and destroyed.  
       Directly in front of my position, not thirty feet away, were the rear lines of the Gothic reserves. They were mostly infantry, armed with long spears and heavy shields, and had their backs to us.
       I had to act before they noticed our presence. For a terrifying moment I was seized with indecision, the curse of men promoted beyond their station and ability. The blood ran cold in my veins. My fingers froze on the hilt of Caledfwlch, and the order to charge dried up in my throat.
       Shaking with terror, I had enough presence of mind left to nod meaningfully at the trumpeter. He raised the curved bugle to his lips and blew a long, sharp blast, causing my horse to rear and toss her head in panic. I fumbled with her reins, my fingers slipping, and she bolted, straight towards the Gothic lines.
       “Roma Victor!” I croaked. The strangled cry was taken up by my men, and then they were surging after me, baying like hounds racing in for the kill.
       We were among the Goths before they knew what had hit them. I managed to regain