His strength failed as he neared the gates of Carthage, and he collapsed onto his face. Pharas raised him up again and shoved him through the Numidian Gate into the square beyond, where the citizens and a large portion of the Roman army were assembled to receive the defeated king.
Belisarius had arranged for a raised platform to be set up opposite the gate. He sat on Gelimer’s royal throne on the platform, dressed in full armour with the imperial field standards fluttering above his head, every inch the conquering Roman general. Antonina lounged elegantly on a smaller chair to his left, dressed in white silk and smirking like a cat upon the discovery of a bathtub full of fresh cream.
The platform was otherwise occupied by military officers, Carthaginian bishops and priests, and other great men of the city, all come to witness the humiliation of their former monarch. They were beneath contempt, most of them, jackals who would not have dared meet Gelimer’s eye in the days of his power.
I stood behind the throne as part of Belisarius’s honour guard, hot and uncomfortable in heavy chain mail and a crested helmet. The other guardsmen were baffled by this stranger among their ranks, and cast occasional wary glances at me and the old-fashioned gladius I carried at my belt.
Three sides of the square were packed with Roman infantry and mounted squadrons of bucelarii. Behind them were the mass of ordinary citizens. The day was warm and still. Despite the crowds a strange silence had fallen over the square, as though the city held its breath for the arrival of Gelimer.
He came, a bedraggled and shambling figure, leaning on the broad shoulder of Pharas and mumbling to himself, apparently unaware of the thousands of eyes fixed on him.
The way to the platform was lined with a carpet made from the scarlet cloth of captured Vandal banners; scarlet being their preferred colour. Gelimer limped along the carpet. When he reached the midway point some of his old royal dignity and poise returned to him. He straightened, gently pushed away Pharas and advanced towards the dais.
A great heap of his captured treasure lay on a purple sheet to the left of Belisarius’s throne. Gelimer paused at the foot of the steps and gazed on the gold and silver, the jewels and the captured armour, all gleaming like fire in the blaze of the African sun.
It was only then that I, and all the others crowded on the platform, saw the blood trickling down his legs, caused by the girdle he wore. Some of the more impressionable souls gasped and recoiled in horror, but Belisarius was unmoved.
He offered Gelimer his right hand. “You are welcome, Majesty,” he said in a kindly tone, “Rome accepts your surrender.”
It occurred to me that Belisarius looked rather more like an Emperor than his master. His gracious and forgiving manner combined with his tall, imposing frame and gleaming armour, lent him the aspect of a living god. The appearance of Justinian, that stunted and fussy little man, made for a stark contrast.
I wasn’t the only one to appreciate this, and false rumours would soon filter back to Constantinople of treacherous ambitions lurking in the general’s breast.
Along with the others closest to the throne, I was able to hear what passed between Gelimer and Belisarius. The king did not take the proffered hand, but tore away part of his filthy tunic to expose his neck.
“Finish me off,” he demanded, “have me strangled, as Caesar did to Vercinegetorix. Do it, but quickly. This world is done with me.”
Belisarius was nonplussed, and I thought I heard Antonina smother a giggle. “You were not brought here for execution,” said the general, slowly and deliberately, as though he spoke to a child, “there is no question of that. Rome shall spare your life, and treat you with the honour and dignity due to a king.”
Gelimer laughed. “Honour and dignity? You mean to parade me through the streets of Constantinople in a chariot, like some captured animal, for your citizens to mock and throw dung at.”
“There shall be a procession, true. You must play your part in it. Afterwards, the Emperor has assured me you will be offered an estate near the city to live on, and servants to attend to your needs.”
Gelimer’s face creased into a hideous mask, and he spat at the general’s feet. “A gilded cage!” he snarled, “I will dash my brains out against the wall, rather than suffer such humiliation.”
The general drew in a sharp breath. I could sense the tension in him. He had made every effort to treat his beaten enemies with kindness, and all they did was throw it back in his face. It must have been supremely tempting to give the Vandals what they wanted, assume the mask of a tyrant, and drown the remnants of their nation in fire and blood.
“While you are committing this act of self-destruction, for which God shall not forgive you,” he said, leaning forward until his face was just inches from Gelimer’s, “what of your nephew? Will you leave him alone in the world, stripped of all his kin, to be raised among strangers?”
“He is a pretty boy,” put in Antonina, “I have a mind to keep him as a pet. He is a little old to be made into a eunuch, but the surgeons at Constantinople are skilled in every medical art.”
She spoke with characteristic insouciance, but her words had their affect. The suggestion that Gelimer’s only surviving nephew, the last male heir of the Vandal royal bloodline, might be castrated and compelled to serve as a Roman lady’s pet eunuch, shocked Gelimer to his senses.
“Very well,” he said, “for the sake of Euages, I consent to these terms.”
His shoulders sagged, and he sounded like a tired and defeated old man.
“The wheel of fortune has lifted you to the heights, Belisarius,” he added, “but look at me now, and remember. The wheel shall turn.”
“I know,” Belisarius replied quietly, “all is vanity.”
Gelimer slowly dropped to his knees and bowed his head before the throne he had once occupied.
That was the signal for the tension in the square to break, and suddenly the air was full of deafening cheers and wildly blowing horns and trumpets. The war in North Africa was finished, thank God, and I had come through it with a whole skin.
Chapter 24
We did not embark for Constantinople for several weeks. During this time Belisarius was embroiled in arranging the government of the new province in his absence, and fending off accusations of treachery. A number of his subalterns, envious of his success, had secretly deserted and made their way back to the imperial capital, where they reported that Belisarius meant to make himself King of Africa. Justinian was naive enough to listen to their lies, and dispatched a eunuch, Solomon, to negotiate with the general.
As an officer in Belisarius’s personal guard, I was kept none too busy, and divided my time between the palace barracks and watching the transports being loaded and refitted. I was privy to none of what passed between Belisarius and Solomon, but spent long hours on guard duty outside the royal apartments in the palace. When I saw the general, he had acquired a wan, exhausted look, and no wonder since the candles in his chambers were kept burning all night.
In such idleness, and the relief of having survived the campaign and recovered Caledfwlch, lay the danger of complacency. I had all but forgotten Theodora’s threat — that North Africa was not far enough to escape her malice — and was contemplating my future. A comfortable berth in the retinue of a supremely successful Roman general seemed a good start to a new life.
All the while, Theodora’s coils were slowly tightening around me.
As I have said, the duties of Belisarius’s guards were light. We were even allowed the luxury of one or two nights off a week to amuse ourselves. I generally took myself to a wine-shop frequented by Roman soldiers, since the citizens of Carthage were by no means friendly and it was dangerous for a Roman to walk the streets at night alone. Here I diced and drank away my boredom, before staggering back to barracks in the early hours accompanied by several comrades.