He pointed his lance accusingly at Gelimer. His comrades — there were only a handful of them left, maybe nine or ten — took up his cry. The Vandals were a fearsomely proud race, and it was far easier to blame one man for their defeat at the hands of a people they regarded as degenerate.
Gelimer’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times, putting me in mind of a startled fish, but he had nothing to say. His well of speeches had run dry, and he could no longer count on the automatic loyalty of his subjects. Belisarius had destroyed his credibility.
“Farewell, Majesty,” said the officer, “I have followed you as far as I can, and must make my own way in the world. May God forgive you, and guide you to some peaceful haven.”
He turned his horse and rode away into the desert. After easing their consciences with similar noises of regret, the others departed singly or in little groups.
Gelimer watched them go in silence. He had the wretched look of a man whose spirit had flowed out of him, leaving a broken and useless vessel. No-one else remained besides me and a twelve-year old boy named Euages, his last surviving nephew.
“Majesty,” I said, hoping to take advantage of his weakness, “cut my bonds.”
He nodded dumbly at Euages. The boy trotted over to me, drew his dagger and slit the leather cords that bound my wrists. I gasped and doubled up in pain as the blood flowed back into my numbed hands.
While I recovered, Gelimer slid from his horse and went down on his knees in the sand. Then he slowly drew Caledfwlch and offered it to me, hilt-first.
“Take it,” he said, “the sword is rightfully yours. God has punished me for assuming that it was mine, and would lead me to dominion over the earth.”
I could hardly believe what was being offered, after so many years and hardships. Caledfwlch’s hilt glinted in the moonlight. All I had to do was reach out and snatch it.
“Promise me this,” the king went on, “when you take the sword, let your first act be to plunge it into my breast. I would do so myself, but lack the courage.”
Euages cried out and half-drew his dagger, but Gelimer raised a hand to still his protests.
“Patience, nephew,” he said with a wry smile, “let this man do one clean thing, and you shall be King of the Vandals. I wish you joy of your crown. King of a conquered people, of dust and ashes!”
Gelimer’s extraordinary eyes yearned up at me, willing me to murder him. He offered the sword again. I could have simply taken it and ridden away, but lacked the presence of mind. A ghostly voice seemed to whisper in my ear, urging me to kill the man kneeling before me.
“I am many things, Majesty,” I said, “but not an assassin. Give me the sword freely, without condition, or not at all.”
The king’s face screwed up in rage. “Will no-one obey me?” he howled, “am I to be mocked and insulted by former slaves?”
I was unmoved. His tantrums no longer had the power to threaten. He made for a wretched, laughable sight, like an overgrown infant wailing for his rattle.
“No insult was intended,” I replied calmly, “but I will not put an end to you.”
Gelimer made a whining noise in the back of his throat and started to crawl towards me on all fours. “Please,” he begged, “if you carried my head back to Belisarius, he would heap honours and riches on you! Think of what you are throwing away!
His nephew had heard enough. “Shame!” cried Euages, putting himself between us, “for shame, uncle. Get up, and stop making a spectacle of yourself.”
Suitably admonished, Gelimer slowly rose to his feet and slid Caledfwlch back into its sheath.
“We shall go to Hippo Regius,” said Euages, “and send word to the Visigoths. As you said, uncle, this war is not over.”
I was amused by his assertiveness, and how meekly Gelimer allowed his nephew to take control. Euages was barely twelve years old and already cut a more royal figure.
Two days later we reached Hippo Regius, which was like a smaller version of Constantinople basking on the African coast. It was a prosperous place, or had been, with a number of splendid Roman-style villas near the city gates and the seafront. Like Carthage, the walls were in a ruinous state, and I doubted they could withstand one determined assault from Belisarius’s infantry.
Gelimer, whose spirits had revived a little, made himself known to the guards on the gate and told them to fetch Boniface, the Vandal officer he had left in charge of the city.
Boniface soon appeared on the decaying rampart above the main gates. He was a big, fleshy man, and instead of armour wore light silken robes embroidered with gold. More gold flashed around his neck and on his fingers as he leaned on the parapet and squinted down at us.
“Majesty,” he said, “one of your former guards brought us the news a couple of hours ago. It seems your campaign against the Romans has not been a resounding success.”
Gelimer swallowed hard before replying. “Open the gates,” he cried, “the Romans will soon be here, and we must put the city in a state of defence.”
“A state of defence, Majesty? The city garrison is a rabble of citizen militia and watchmen. It is all I can do to keep them sober. The walls are falling to pieces. That boy who rides with you could put his fist through them.”
He spread his hands to indicate the vast empty space behind Gelimer. “Where are your legions, dread king? Where are your lancers, your spearmen, your mighty engines of war? All gone. Scattered to the four winds, or food for vultures.”
Gelimer’s neck suffused with angry blood. “I am not interested in your rhetoric, Boniface,” he yelled, “open these gates, I command you!”
Boniface sadly shook his head. “No,” he said, “you command nothing anymore. When the Romans come, I shall open the gates to them, and bargain for whatever concessions they are willing to yield. There has been too much bloodshed. Not one more Vandal shall die for the sake of your vanity.”
The fallen king went berserk. He reached new heights of eloquence in his condemnation of Boniface, and promised violent and disgusting retribution. The reason for his anger was twofold. Not only had Boniface defied him to his face, but the last of the royal treasure was inside the city. The treasure was Gelimer’s only means of raising a new army to fight the Romans, and of buying the support of the Visigoths.
Boniface waited patiently until the king had to pause for breath. “You must leave now,” he said, “the Romans will be here soon — I fancy I can see the dust of their cavalry on the horizon — and I am not used to being threatened. Go, before I permit my archers to use you for target practice.”
Gelimer railed and cursed some more, to no avail. As a last resort he burst into tears, which earned him nothing but the laughter of the men on the walls. With a final curse and a shake of his fist, he turned away from the city and spurred his horse west, towards a distant range of mountains.
His nephew and I followed, though there was nothing to stop me from leaving them and riding to join the Romans that were undoubtedly advancing on Hippo Regius.
I did stop for a moment, and shaded my eyes to peer east. There was a cloud of dust visible on the horizon, and I glimpsed sunlight reflecting off advancing spearheads.
I was torn between two possible futures. To follow Gelimer was by far the least desirable option, but the madman still had my sword.
With a heavy sigh, I turned my face away from the east and rode after the king.
Chapter 21
Gelimer took us deep into the mountainous region known as the Khroumirie, near the border of Tunisia. This was no rocky desolation, but mostly covered in thick forest and well-watered by a network of rivers flowing into the sea to the north.
The king had fallen into one of his black moods. During the journey he was a silent, hangdog figure, and did not respond to any of my questions. His nephew, a brave and lively youth and deserving of a better kinsman, was more forthcoming.