He gave an involuntary shudder, and his thoughts were plain: my turn will come, one day.
“All is vanity, Coel,” he said with a dismissive gesture of his hand, “your grandfather would have appreciated that. As he would have appreciated the remarkable achievement of his grandson.”
I coloured. “I did nothing but survive, sir.”
“As I said, remarkable. Not only did you survive months of captivity, but you relieved Gelimer of Caesar’s sword. Come with me. There is something you should see.”
Belisarius rose and walked away. I followed, along with the guards, and we struggled to keep up with his long-legged stride as he led us through a doorway and along a wide corridor with a vaulted roof.
We moved deeper into the bowels of the palace, along further corridors and down many flights of steps. On the way we passed guardsmen on sentry duty that stiffened and saluted Belisarius, and serving-men that cringed and prostrated themselves.
“The Carthaginians think of me as a tyrant,” he murmured as we passed two cup-bearers who had laid aside their burdens to kneel and knock their heads on the marble floor, “even though I have taken pains to treat them with kindness and mercy. Scipio the Younger lined the streets of Carthage with crucified citizens. It seems they expect me to do the same.”
Eventually we reached a solid cross-timbered door, guarded by ten Veterans who stamped their feet and saluted at the approach of Belisarius. He ordered their captain to unlock the door, and that only I was to follow him inside.
We stepped through into a vast strongroom, lit by torches set high in sconces in the walls. The light they cast was shadowy, but enough to reveal the heaped royal treasure of the Vandals.
“Look upon it, Coel,” said Belisarius, his voice echoing in that huge space, “look upon the spoil of our campaign.”
The treasure was mingled in careless confusion. My eye roved over chairs made of solid gold, a golden chariot, versions of the Gospels encrusted with jewels and precious stones, a silver table service that must have weighed thousands of pounds, and countless weapons and bits of armour from Gelimer’s armouries. Added to these the spoil of past Vandal wars and conquests, captured Roman banners and eagles from Genseric’s sack of Rome, crested Roman helmets, Germanic boar helmets, Moorish shields covered by panther and leopard skins, breastplates made of dried crocodile skin…it was too much to take in, and the blinding gleam of gold and silver made me blink and look away.
“My scribes have only begun to make an inventory of all this,” said the general, “look there.”
He pointed to a corner, where a space had been cleared for an altar and a six-branched lampstand. Both were made of beaten gold, and seemed to have an internal glow that made them stand apart from the glittering rubble of defeated nations.
“The lampstand is the Menorah,” added Belisarius, “which God directed Moses to use in his sanctuary in the wilderness. Along with the other Jewish holy relics, it was taken from the church in Jerusalem by the legions of Titus, and paraded through Rome as a trophy of war. The Vandals under Genseric took it from us, and now I have taken it back again. God knows what will happen when the Jews find out we have recovered the Menorah. The Nika riots might seem a minor disturbance by comparison.”
My awe was tempered by suspicion of why Belisarius had brought me here. “You wish to add this to the pile,” I said, curling my fingers around Caledfwlch’s hilt, “you mean to lay it at the Emperor’s feet, as the crowning glory of your conquest.”
“There are many glories here,” replied Belisarius, “many of them will be melted down and re-cast as coin to fill the imperial coffers. The Empire cannot afford to be sentimental. But Crocea Mors shall be spared, and given pride of place in the palace armoury.”
I took a step towards the door. “Pharas tried to take it from me, but I refused. I will fall on the blade rather than let it go again. Caledfwlch does not belong to anyone but me.”
My hand tightened on the grip. It was suicide to draw in the general’s presence, but I had meant every word.
“You are a soldier of the Empire,” he warned. “You took the oath of allegiance. To break the oath is treason, and punishable by death.”
“Without Caledfwlch, I am dead,” I replied simply.
A long moment passed, and then Belisarius grimaced and rubbed his jaw. “I must be a cruel man,” he said, “to put you through such suspense, especially after all you have suffered. You may keep the sword.”
I stared at him. “Keep it?”
“Yes. Depriving you of it would clearly lead to your destruction. No man-made thing of metal and ivory is worth a life.”
“What of the Emperor?”
Belisarius smiled thinly. “The Emperor will have more important matters on his mind, such as the administration of North Africa. I have seen too many men die in agony to have any illusions about the nature and purpose of a sword. Crocea Mors has of no real value save as an heirloom.”
I was stung by that, and sufficiently emboldened to question him. “You call it a mere thing. What of your devotions? When you kneel before an image of Christ, do you regard that as a thing of wood and paint?”
“The purpose of an icon is merely to act as a reminder,” he replied, “the truth and love of Christ is found in the heart.”
He smiled wanly, and folded his arms. “Now I find myself confiding in a servant, if a rather unusual one. You are a servant, are you not? A servant and a friend of Rome. I would be happy to know that Caesar’s sword was in the possession of such a man.”
He might have added, and less than happy to know it was not.
“Here and now, I am Rome,” he went on, “the Emperor gave me the title of Autocrator, with sole authority over the fleet and army despatched to North Africa. I have the power to appoint and break men as I see fit. You are a useful man, Coel. I want to appoint you as an officer in my personal guard.”
He frowned at my stricken expression. “Most men have to wait years for such a commission. Do you reject it? Come, give me your answer. I do not have the luxury of time to waste.”
My mind was struggling to make sense of this sudden upturn in my fortunes. Belisarius’s offer was indeed honourable, but there was policy behind it. He was generous enough not to take Caesar’s sword from me, and shrewd enough to realise the worth of having the one who carried it for an ally. Better still, a subordinate.
That said, if I had to serve anyone, I would rather it was Belisarius. I had no notion of freedom, or what I would do with it. My only ambition had been to recover my birthright. Now that was fulfilled.
For the time being I was content to let another dictate my future, and so I accepted Belisarius’s gift.
Chapter 23
Gelimer finally quit his mountain refuge and gave himself up to the Heruli. They brought him and his nephew back to Carthage, not with any great triumph, for Pharas was not the type to gloat over captives, but with honour.
The king did his best to humiliate himself. He declined to enter his former capital on a horse or a camel, but insisted on walking all the way in the tattered garb of a penitent. He even asked for a penitent’s girdle to wear, lined with barbs on the inside to mortify his unworthy flesh as he walked. Pharas refused to supply it, so Gelimer made one for himself from a discarded bridle and the thorns he plucked from a desert acacia.
For the sake of peace, Pharas went along with this folly, and his soldiers had to march behind the crazed figure of Gelimer as he stumbled barefoot through the desert, mumbling prayers in Latin.