His guards saw me coming. One of them rode at me with his spear. I drew my spatha, took the spear-thrust on my shield and cut at his face as he galloped past. That was one of the finest blows I ever struck. He dropped his spear and reeled away, clutching at the terrible gash I had opened across his left eye, through his nose and down to his jaw.
I plunged on towards Gelimer, who was pointing in my direction and shouting something I couldn’t hear. More of his guards came at me — too many for one man to fight, even I had been Achilles himself. One of them drove his spear into my wounded horse’s neck. The poor beast shrieked and recoiled onto her haunches.
Another spear struck against my shield with enough force to knock me down. I tumbled to earth, tried to stand, slipped on a patch of entrails, almost impaled my leg with my sword, and felt the prick of sharp iron against my breast.
“Be still,” said a Vandal horseman in Greek with a guttural Germanic accent, “or die.”
The red mist lifted from my eyes. I gazed up at him, fierce and bearded under his helmet of corrugated iron, and slowly became aware that I was soaked in blood and sweat. My pulse was fluttering like that of a frightened bird, and my breath came in deep gasps.
I was surrounded by dead and wounded men, most of them foederati. The survivors had fled, Pharas among them, back down the road towards Decimum.
King Gelimer trotted towards me, followed by his guards. He was a tall, thin man, of the sort who does not carry fat, with an anxious, dried-up look about him. He was in his early fifties, his sparse fair hair turning white, but his most notable feature was his eyes. These were large and blue, flecked with gold, and had a dreamy quality that reminded me of the stylites I had seen in Constantinople. It was easy to see why his people took him be to a sort of prophet as well as a king.
“You,” he said, pointing at me, “are the bravest man in the Roman army. When all your comrades ran away, you alone tried to kill me. I salute you.”
He raised his arm in a clenched-fist salute. Several of his guards rattled their spears against their shields in approval. My face burned, but with embarrassment instead of rage.
“You are my prisoner,” added the king, “and shall be taken back to Carthage when this battle is done. You shall be treated with all honour, and the price of your ransom sent to Constantinople. Justinian, I think, will appreciate the safe return of at least one of his soldiers.”
It dawned on me that Gelimer thought the battle was as good as won. The reason why became apparent when one of his officers came galloping up from the road to the south.
“The Romans are retreating, lord!” he exulted, “not only their mercenaries, but the guards also. They have cast down their banners and are running like whipped dogs!”
He spoke only part of the truth. Our routed foederati had indeed met with a forward detachment of Belisarius’s guards, some eight hundred men. Instead of rallying the beaten fugitives, these cravens joined them in flight, and the whole lot went stampeding back down the road. Had Gelimer pressed his advantage at that moment, I doubt even Belisarius would have been able to withstand him.
While I was being disarmed and my wrists bound, Gelimer walked his horse down the hill to inspect the slain. The men around me jumped as their king uttered a sudden howl and tumbled from his saddle.
He knelt on all fours, grovelling and weeping like a babe, beside the body of one of the dead Vandals. This man wore ornate scale armour and a golden helm, and had clearly been a noble of some sort. The helm was split in two by some powerful stroke, and his brains leaked out from his cloven skull.
“God save us,” whispered one of my guards, making the sign of the cross, “Prince Ammatas is dead.”
Ammatus was one of Gelimer’s brothers. He had been in command of the detachment of Vandals ambushed and routed by our vanguard under John the Armenian.
Gelimer was inconsolable. His men looked on in dismay as he clasped his brother’s body to his own, rocking back and forth and weeping bitter tears.
One of his officers dared to approach the distraught monarch. “Majesty,” he said nervously, “you must put aside your grief. The Romans are not yet driven from the field.”
“Must!” Gellimer screamed, ripping off his helmet and hurling it at the officer. “You little man of no consequence, dare you tell a king what he must do? Here lies my noble brother, whom I have loved and cherished all my days, lying dead at my feet. Damn the Romans. Someone must ride back to Carthage and fetch a priest, so that Ammatus can be given the proper rites.”
I could scarcely believe my ears. Gelimer’s grief had overpowered his wits, and he cared for nothing save that his brother should be buried with dignity. His officers begged and pleaded with him — one actually went down on his knees in the dust — but he took no notice.
Eventually a rider was despatched to fetch a priest. The Vandals stood idle, resting their horses and waiting for further orders. I was hoisted onto a spare horse, but otherwise nothing happened.
A strange calm fell over the field. Dismounted Vandal soldiers wandered about, stripping corpses of valuables and finishing off the Roman wounded. Others settled down to eat their rations.
Then a sound like distant thunder reached my ears. I had been waiting for it, and craned my neck to gaze south. Some of the Vandals heard it too. They looked up from their suppers, cocking their heads to listen and exchanging worried glances.
The thunder grew louder, accompanied by a wall of dust billowing up from Decimum and a cacophony of trumpets and war-horns, echoing and re-echoing through the hills.
“Belisarius!” someone wailed.
Roman banners came in sight. Thousands of horsemen were streaming up the road, formed into a single phalanx led by the general on his distinctive white-faced bay. His bucelarii rode behind him, with the Huns and the foederati on the wings.
I surmised that our fleeing cavalry had encountered the main body of the army advancing across the plain below, where Belisarius managed to rally them. He then formed all his men into a single body and led them on at the gallop, staking the fortune of the battle on an all-or-nothing charge.
The Vandals were caught unawares, and Gelimer was still too embroiled in his grief to take command. His officers panicked and ran around in disarray, shouting a host of conflicting orders. Their voices were drowned by the thunderous din of galloping hoofs and screaming trumpets and the war-shouts of Belisarius’s riders.
The Romans were outnumbered, but Gelimer’s men were stationery, taken by surprise and demoralised by the behaviour of their king. I saw two Vandal officers seize Gelimer, tear him away from his brother’s body, and throw him over the back of a horse. Then the dust kicked up by the charging Roman cavalry rolled over the field and hid them from view.
My wrists were bound, so I used my knees to goad my horse towards them. One of the bucelarii charged into view. The massive armoured horseman galloped over two dismounted Vandals foolish enough to oppose him and drove his lance through the body of another.
Trumpets bawled, signalling the retreat. Fleeing Vandals rushed past me, some on foot, others dragging their terrified horses in circles as they tried to mount before the Romans struck.
Panic, the death of all armies, infected the Vandal host. Only a few of Gelimer’s guards held their nerve and closed up around the protesting figure of their king. One of their officers, curse him, had sufficient presence of mind to seize my bridle.
“Let me go!” I yelled, “I am no use to you — release me, damn you! Help me, comrades! A rescue, a rescue!”
No-one heard me, and he would not relinquish his grip. I could have taken a risk and deliberately tumbled out of the saddle, but lacked the courage.
There was a good chance of being trampled in the rout.
Still bleating, I was led away from the battlefield as a captive.