“He asks for a lyre to be sent up to him, with a sponge and a loaf of decent bread. The lyre is so he can once again hear music, to soften the desolation of his heart. The sponge is to treat the swellings on his eyes, and the bread as a palliative against the coarse Moorish stuff he is forced to eat. Those are his words, not mine.”
“Quite the bloody poet, isn’t he? Well, I suppose we should return the great favour he has shown us. I don’t know how the army would have coped without you.”
His heavy sarcasm was tinged with suspicion. “Why did the Vandals take you prisoner?” he demanded, “they don’t usually, especially not Romans. What makes you so special?”
He kept me on my feet, even though I was half-starved and croaking with thirst, while I poured out the story of why I tried to kill Gelimer at Decimum, of my treatment as a prisoner afterwards, my presence at Tricamarum, and the long, painful weeks on Mount Papua. It was an extraordinary tale, and Pharas might not have believed it, had I not drawn Caledfwlch and held it up for his inspection.
He stared at the sword for a moment. “Give it here,” he said finally, holding out his hand.
It took a major effort of will to disobey an order from Pharas. His word had been law during my months of training in the camp of the Heruli, and I had seen soldiers flogged or even executed for defying him. But I would not give up Caledfwlch again. I was prepared to die rather than allow it to be taken from me.
“Are you deaf?” he rasped when I made no move. “Hand it over. Now.”
I pushed Caledfwlch back into its sheath. “No, sir,” I replied, “the sword is mine. I claim it, not as booty, but as my birthright. General Belisarius will know what I mean.”
Mention of the general’s name stemmed the angry blood that had flowed to Pharas’s cheeks. “Will he, now?” he said, “I remember you being summoned to the palace, just before the expedition sailed. And you were seen speaking to the general and his wife at Grasse.”
He poured himself a cup of wine and drank deeply from it. “You stink, Coel,” he said, wiping his lips, “and not just because you haven’t washed recently. You stink of politics. So does that sword. A rank odour. One I have never learned to appreciate.”
I waited, trembling with cold and hunger, while Pharas considered the best and safest course of action.
“First, you can have a bath,” he said, “and a shave. A Roman soldier may be bearded, but he has no business looking like a vagrant. Then we had better get some food inside you, and find you a fresh set of clothes. When you are presentable again, you can go to Belisarius at Carthage. He can decide your fate.”
I sagged with relief, but kept a tight grip on Caledfwlch as Pharas’s guards took me away to be cleaned up. The food was the usual basic soldier’s fare, but I wolfed down the coarse bread and beans as though it was ambrosia, and wallowed in a tub of steaming water until all the dirt and stress of the recent past had seeped from my body. I was given a clean tunic, breeches and a cloak, once the property of a Heruli soldier killed at Tricamarum.
Pharas allowed me no further time to rest, though I craved sleep, and despatched twenty soldiers to escort me to Carthage. A messenger was sent ahead of us to warn Belisarius of my coming.
We rode out of the camp, me aboard a spare horse and scarcely able to keep my eyes open, and headed east towards the capital. The journey was uneventful, for the country was largely pacified and my guards well-armed. The city was two days’ ride away, and I had never felt more grateful when we halted for the night. I fell asleep almost as soon as I slid from the saddle, and knew nothing more until a soldier shook me awake, not unkindly, and grunted that we had to move on.
I had never set eyes on Carthage, perhaps the most famous city in the civilised world after Rome and Constantinople. As at Hippo Regius, the Vandals had allowed its defences to fall into a ruinous state, but Belisarius’s men had strengthened the walls and widened the defensive ditch with impressive speed.
My first impression, when we arrived on a summit overlooking the Numidian Gate, was of a city deserving of its fame. The Emperor Augustus had ordered Carthage to be rebuilt on the ashes of the city destroyed by Scipio Africanus, and the Vandals had preserved its internal splendour and grace. An ancient citadel dominated the harbour, which was strongly defended by towers and iron chains.
The city was divided into two halves. The lower half was a maze of narrow streets, shops, storehouses and poor dwellings, packed together next to the harbour and the coast. The upper half, centred on the Roman Amphitheatre, was more salubrious. Here the streets were broader, and crowds bustled around ancient pagan churches that had been converted into Christian basilicas. The wealthiest citizens strolled beside fair gardens and pools decorated with beds of flowers and flourishing palms, nourished by an aqueduct. Other than the sunlight gleaming on the helms of Roman soldiers patrolling the walls, there was little to indicate that Carthage was a conquered city.
Gelimer’s royal palace was situated close to the Amphitheatre. I found it easy to imagine his tall, spare figure, striding through the colonnaded walkways and shadowy halls, chewing his nails and barking nonsensical orders at subordinates. Soon, assuming he had surrendered to Pharas, he would be brought back to his capital in chains and paraded before his people as a trophy of war.
We entered the city through the Numidian gate and rode through a widely-spaced suburb towards the palace. My escort handed me over to the guards on the gate, whom I recognised as belonging to Belisarius’s Veterans.
The Veterans took me to an inner courtyard surrounded by a covered archway. They marched with the brisk, purposeful tread of men who knew they weren’t marching anywhere dangerous. These were no longer soldiers on campaign, but victors basking in the reflected glory of their commander’s triumph.
There was a garden in the middle of the courtyard, watered by a stone fountain and decorated by a statue of a Carthaginian soldier. His armour was in an antiquated style, and his javelin was drawn back ready to throw.
Belisarius sat on a marble seat opposite the statue. He had put off his armour, and wore a loose white toga against the baking heat. I had not seen him for months, and thought that the vigours and stresses of the campaign had aged him. His sparse hair was virtually rubbed from his scalp, and his long face had acquired a clenched, humourless look, that of a man who had carried too much responsibility for too long. Thankfully, his wife was not present.
He was gazing at the statue when I was marched into the courtyard. Two of his Veterans remained to ensure his safety, but kept a discreet distance when he beckoned me to his side.
“Look at this, Coel,” he said, nodding at the statue, “it might be a likeness of Hannibal himself.”
I glanced over the statue. The soldier wore a muscled cuirass and an ornate Thracian-style helmet with a monstrous plume that swept down almost to his waist, indicating that he was meant to be no ordinary infantryman. His bearded face was contorted in an expression of righteous fury. I could well imagine Hannibal, the great Carthaginian general, looking such when he led his motley armies against the legions of the Republic.
“Hannibal almost destroyed Rome,” added Belisarius without waiting for my answer, “at Cannae he slaughtered so many of our soldiers that hardly enough men could be found in Italy to replace them. The citizens of Rome gave way to panic and despair, and twice buried innocent people alive as sacrifices to their pagan gods, believing that was the only way to avert the fury of Hannibal. They went so far as to drown a baby in the Adriatic.”
Belisarius seemed fascinated by the statue. He looked on it for an uncomfortably long time, frowning and tapping his fingertips together.
“For all his triumphs, Hannibal died alone, rejected and despised by his people and hounded by his enemies. Of all the men on earth, only the Roman general who had finally conquered him, Scipio, made an effort to ensure Hannibal was allowed to die in peace. Scipio was a wise man. He knew his turn would come. In the fullness of time he too was abandoned by the people he had saved, and tasted the bitterness of exile.”