“God grant that all our conquests are so easy,” I overheard Pharas remark to one of his officers.
I was considered fit to ride, and so rejoined the Heruli. Belisarius decided to send three hundred foederati a few miles ahead of the main army as a vanguard, while double that number of Huns covered our left flank. The sea guarded our right, and the mass of infantry were left to struggle along in the rear. The general regarded speed as vital, and wanted to reach Carthage before Gelimer had to time to react.
He was careful to hug the coast as we marched north, and to stay in close contact with the fleet, which was commanded to keep the army in sight at all times. To that end the sailors used oars to match the pace of the army during calms and slight breezes, and the minimum of sail if a strong wind blew up.
My spirits began to recover, as well as my guts, helped by the lack of resistance the army met with on the march north. Those African locals we encountered showed no hostility, and were happy to sell us fresh fruit and other much-needed provisions. Belisarius ensured they were paid a fair price, and had a couple of Armenian soldiers who stole from an orchard flogged in sight of the whole army.
This was the signal for another of his impassioned public harangues, in which he warned his soldiers to learn from this example, and of the importance of making allies of the natives. Afterwards I heard the culprits complain bitterly of their harsh treatment while a surgeon rubbed liniment onto their bleeding backs.
“Be thankful,” the surgeon remarked, smiling nastily at their howls as he rubbed with unnecessary vigour, “in the old days of the legions you would have been executed for such a breach of discipline. Belisarius can be hard when necessary, but he is no Tiberius.”
The army marched at a rate of about twelve miles a day, which was slow going, but Belisarius was cautious and determined not to leave the infantry too far behind. Every night, unless we had reached a fortified settlement to take shelter inside, we built a camp defended by a ditch and a stockade.
So far the campaign had been more like a pleasure trip, and never more so than when we reached Grasse, just fifty miles from Carthage. Here the supposedly barbaric Vandals had built a country palace surrounded by exotic gardens, watered by a cunning irrigation system.
The garrison had abandoned the palace in the face of our advance, and it was like stumbling on a deserted Paradise in the middle of parched desert. Belisarius allowed his weary men a few hours to wander among the shady woods and groves, pick ripe fruit from the trees and drink crystal-clear water from sparkling fountains.
It was here that I first met Antonina, Belisarius’s wife, who had insisted on accompanying her husband on campaign. I had heard much about her during the voyage, mostly from sex-starved mariners and soldiers with a tendency to let their imaginations roam free. She was a former courtesan, like Theodora, and had also made her fortune by catching the eye of a great man. Antonia and the Empress were said to be great friends, and to indirectly rule the Empire through their husbands.
I had not forgotten Theodora’s parting threat. She meant to harm me, and I was fearful that Antonina would be her instrument. The lady herself showed no interest in me when I met her walking in the gardens, arm-in-arm with Belisarius. I noticed that he hung on her every word, laughed when she laughed, and gazed on her with slavish adoration.
In person she was tall, willowy and fair-haired, with an athletic gracefulness that reminded me painfully of Elene. Her beauty was of a more natural sort than Theodora’s, and not so reliant on paint and cosmetics to sustain it. She was dressed like a respectable Roman wife, in an ankle-length white robe and a white head-cloth to protect her against the glare of the sun. Her modest clothing only served to make her more alluring, and drew attention to the superb body concealed underneath.
I stood to attention and saluted the general. He returned the salute in an offhand sort of way, and then stopped when he recognised me.
“Coel,” he said in a tone of pleasant surprise, “so you survived the voyage, then. I’m glad.”
“Thank you, sir,” I replied, impressed that he even remembered my name. The Emperor had given Belisarius supreme responsibility for the African campaign, a clever way of avoiding blame if it failed, and I suspect he hadn’t given me a second thought since leaving Constantinople.
“This is the Briton I told you about, my dear,” he said, turning to his wife, “do you remember? He was once a charioteer in the Circus. They called him Britannicus.”
At the mention of my Circus name I thought I detected a flash of recognition in Antonina’s lovely eyes, quickly masked.
“I remember,” she said in her soft, breathy voice, “a Briton. How singular. He doesn’t look very well.”
“No, he doesn’t,” Belisarius agreed, studying me with a look of genuine concern, “there is considerably less of you than when we last met, Coel. Are you ill?”
“Touch of sickness on the voyage, sir,” I replied, “turns out the sea doesn’t agree with me. On the mend now though.”
“Good. Make sure to build up your strength. You will need it.”
“To retrieve the sword, sir?”
Some of the warmth drained out of the general’s agreeable smile. “Indeed,” he said awkwardly, “though it will mean wresting the blade from Gelimer’s own hand.”
Antonina had listened to this exchange with interest. “What sword, husband?” she asked, “not Crocea Mors, surely? You led me to believe that King Gelimer was a liar, and that he didn’t really have it.”
Belisarius winced at the edge in her voice. “There may be something to Gelimer’s claims,” he admitted, giving me a dark look, “it was supposed to remain a secret.”
“Really? And why should General Belisarius confide a secret to one of his soldiers, but not his wife?”
There was real venom in her tone now. I could well believe that she and Theodora were friends. Belisarius’s mouth worked as he groped for a reply that might placate her.
“The sword is mine, my lady,” I ventured, “I inherited it from my father.”
Antonina looked at me in astonishment. Her agile mind quickly filled in the gaps. “Old Julius campaigned in Britain, didn’t he?” she said slowly, “and this Britannicus, or whatever his name is, comes from that island…”
She gave a little laugh. “Christ save us, you don’t mean to say the story is true? But how did Gelimer come to have the sword?”
“No time for that now,” Belisarius said firmly, “this is not something to be discussed in the open, where all might hear. God be with you, Coel.”
“Wait,” said Antonina as he tried to lead her away, “if this man does succeed in taking Caesar’s sword from Gelimer, does he get to keep it?”
“No,” Belisarius replied brusquely, “it is the property of Rome, and will be taken for safe keeping to Constantinople.”
“He will at least be compensated?” asked Antonina. She was enjoying herself immensely, dragging the truth from her husband and embarrassing him in front of one of his soldiers. Not for the first time, I gave thanks that I was a bachelor.
“Of course,” Belisarius said with a flicker of anger, “do you think I mean to rob him? In exchange for his birthright he will be offered an officer’s rank in the army, or money for his passage home to Britain. Or he can name his own price, within reason. Any man who plucks a sword from the hand of a Vandal king deserves to be rewarded. We have said far too much. Come.”
He took his wife’s arm again. This time Antonina made no objection as he half-dragged her away.
I was left to nurse bitter thoughts. To retrieve Caledwlch from the Vandals would be difficult enough. To have it taken from me again might be unbearable. I still frequently suffered from bad dreams, in which the giant figure I took to be my grandfather re-fought his battles and regarded me balefully from beyond the grave. His shade was watching me. Judging me.