Belisarius was a noble man, or so I hoped. If I did manage to win the sword, then perhaps he would let me retain it: after all, that would be some feat.
When the army was sufficiently rested, it marched away from the unexpected pleasures of Grasse and further along the coastal road that led eventually to Carthage. As we moved out, several of our scouting parties ran into groups of Vandal horsemen, and a few sharp skirmishes were fought before both sides retreated.
I saw the Roman survivors galloping to the head of the column to inform Belisarius, and soon the whole army knew that the enemy was near. Gelimer had finally received word of the invasion and sped from his palace at Hermione to defend Carthage, gathering up what troops he could on the way.
What followed, my first experience of battle, must count as one of the strangest and most confused affairs in the history of war.
Chapter 17
Shortly after leaving Grasse, our army was compelled to turn away from the coast and march inland, in the direction of Tunis. This meant we became separated from the fleet. Belisarius instructed the admiral to work his way around the mountains of Cape Bonn and maintain a distance of at least thirty miles between the fleet and Carthage, unless he received further news from the army.
We marched in the same order, with three hundred cavalry again acting as a vanguard and riding several miles ahead. The infantry were left behind in their entrenchments at Grasse, with orders to stay and guard the baggage. Belisarius also left behind his wife, though given the choice she would have donned a shield and helmet and ridden with him into battle. Whatever sins Theodora and Antonina stand accused of — and the list is inexhaustible — let no-one accuse them of lacking courage.
Like every other man in the main body of cavalry, I had no idea what was happening beyond my line of sight. We rode in column, some four thousand horsemen, through a wide, dusty plain that steadily narrowed to a rocky defile to the north, surrounded by a range of barren hills. The mountains blocked our view of the sea to the east, and another range of hills lay to the west.
The slopes of the defile were occupied by a village called Decimum, the name of which indicated the tenth milestone from Carthage. The milestone itself, a large stone pillar, lay on the outskirts of the village. It was here that Gelimer planned to fight. His plan was to divide his army into three parts in order encircle and entrap the Roman cavalry. It was a bold plan, original and brilliant in conception, and from the start it unravelled.
Belisarius allowed the vanguard to get too far ahead. They were led by his friend, John the Armenian, a capable officer, but fixated on plunder and far too inclined to take matters into his own hands. Fearful that John had committed some folly, Belisarius sent the foederati in search of the vanguard, while he followed with his bucelarii.
Unknown to us, the Huns on our left flank were already engaged with a much larger squadron of Vandals under the command of Gibamund, Gelimer’s nephew. The Vandals should have crushed our flank, but the ferocity of the Hunnish counter-charge took them by surprise. They were routed and pursued across a desolate plain known as the Field of Salt, where Gibamund and hundreds of his men were slaughtered.
Completely unaware that the battle had started, the foederati galloped merrily into the rugged hills that lay to the north. I rode among with them with a detachment of Heruli. There was no enemy in sight, and I had sunk into the delusion that warfare amounted to little more than splendid exercise in fresh air.
We reached a field between two hills, littered with the mangled bodies of men and horses. Pharas, whom Belisarius had placed in overall command of the foederati, ordered a halt to examine them. To our surprise and encouragement, we discovered just twelve dead Romans among scores of fallen Vandals.
This was my first proper look at the enemy. I found that they much resembled the Heruli and other Germanic peoples. Slightly darker-skinned, perhaps, from living in the baking deserts of North Africa, but otherwise there was little to distinguish them.
Pharas was at a loss. “The vanguard must have fought here,” he said, scratching his beard, “but where the hell did they go?”
I pointed out that the trail of corpses led away to the north before petering out. “Perhaps they routed the Vandals and then rode after them in pursuit,” I suggested.
Pharas didn’t like taking advice from mere troopers, but nodded in agreement.
“That would be just like the Armenian,” he spat, “the selfish bastard will chase them all the way to Carthage. He’s a brigand, not a soldier.”
I heard shouts behind us, and twisted in the saddle to see a number of our soldiers galloping up from the rear.
“Sir!” one of them shouted at Pharas. “Look there!”
He pointed his spear to the south, back the way we had come. Pharas snapped at me to go and investigate, but there was no need. A rapidly growing cloud of dust became visible on the horizon, accompanied by the thunder of galloping hoofs and the shrill blast of trumpets.
“It’s Gelimer, sir!” another man yelled. “His whole army is coming up the road, straight at us!”
Pharas swore horribly. “Up there, lads,” he cried, pointing at the nearest hill, “we’ll make a stand at the top and hold them off until the general arrives.”
All our months of discipline and training melted away. Less than half of Pharas’s command followed him up that hill. The rest flung away their weapons and scattered in all directions.
Gelimer himself was indeed riding towards us at the head of seven thousand cavalry. Somehow he had bypassed Belisarius’s column, and now his entire host into a full-blooded charge against the foederati.
The Vandals came on at a furious gallop. Their forward line crashed into our flank as we were still struggling up the slope. I caught a brief glimpse of their horse-tail banners before I had to haul savagely on my reins and wheel my horse to avoid a couple of fleeing Heruli.
Pharas screamed at his men to re-form, but the Vandals had smashed our formation all to pieces. There was no end to them, wave upon wave of mailed and helmeted horsemen. The pick of our men stood and fought doggedly, chanting their death-songs as Vandal swords and spears bit into their flesh.
I would have fled with the others, but then I saw King Gelimer. He was an unmistakable figure, tall and spare and mounted on a beautiful chestnut stallion, his helmet surmounted by a golden crown. He was less than twenty feet away, watching the unequal fight at the head of his personal guards.
His sword was still in its leather sheath. The hilt was made of ivory and stamped with golden eagles.
There is a fine poem in the British tongue, composed in the north, which praises the valour of my grandfather. The poet describes the exploits of a warrior, Gwawrddur:
He fed black ravens on the rampart of a fortress,
But he was no Arthur…
Even Gwawrddur, says the poet, cannot match Arthur, who was an incomparable warrior. The same could not be said for his grandson. I am not a particularly brave man, and was never more than an adequate fighter. But the sight of Caledfwlch, so many years after it was taken from me, roused a fury in my breast that I have rarely experienced before or since.
Nor am I a vain man. A fit of madness, not courage, made me turn my horse and ride straight at the Vandal king.
A horseman threw himself into my path. I threw my spear at him. It struck the middle of his helmet with sufficient force to snap his neck and knock him from the saddle. My horse screamed as a javelin sliced into her belly, but I spurred her on through the swirling dust and knots of fighting men, grimly determined to reach Gelimer and take what was mine.