Naturally, I declined to tell him where I had really been, and spent the remainder of the night lying awake in my narrow camp bed, mulling over what had occurred and the potentially dreadful consequences.
Men are at their lowest ebb in the cold grey hours just before dawn. Exhausted, drunk and frightened out of my wits, I briefly considered deserting, but the idea was impractical. Where could I go that would be beyond the reach of Theodora and Antonina? I had no money, and nothing of value save the sword I had spent so long trying to retrieve.
In the end, my better nature prevailed. If I ran, it would be an admission of guilt, and I had done nothing wrong. Antonina could hardly accuse me of anything without exposing herself to suspicion, and her reputation was hardly stainless. I resolved to trust to the good fortune that had preserved me so far, the favour of Belisarius, and the power of Caledfwlch.
With the sword in my possession, I felt like a different man: Arthur’s true heir, instead of a bewildered fugitive living off whatever scraps the Romans deigned to throw my way.
Fool. Had I known what lay ahead, I would have crept out of the palace and fled into exile. To hide my head under some distant foreign sun might have been preferable to the trials that lay in store for me.
While his wife was busy making a cuckold of him, Belisarius laboured to clear his name of the taint of treachery. Having realised that his enemies meant to bring him down, he had the port of Carthage closely watched, and his soldiers seized a messenger in the act of boarding a ship. The man was searched and found to be carrying a letter full of vile allegations against Belisarius, claiming that he meant to claim Africa as his own private fiefdom.
Belisarius knew the envious nature of Justinian, and that the Empress would be dripping honeyed lies into his ear. The only sure method of proving his loyalty was to embark and sail for Constantinople with all speed, carrying his captives and plunder with him to place before the Emperor.
For several days the port was a frenzy of activity. All hands were required to prepare the fleet for departure, even those belonging to the general’s personal guard. Most of my comrades grumbled at having to set aside their weapons and help with the loading of supplies, but I was glad of the distraction and the opportunity to do some honest, mindless work.
To my great relief, I heard nothing from Antonina, though I occasionally glimpsed her sitting under an awning on the balcony of a large house overlooking the harbour. She was invariably surrounded by attendants and hangers-on, sipping wine as she listened to their flattery and watched the men work.
We embarked on a cold winter’s day and sailed for home, leaving the eunuch Solomon to govern the reconquered province, with the secretary Procopius and a strong garrison to help him.
I stood on the foredeck of the general’s flagship and felt my spirits lift as the African coastline dwindled to nothing. My fervent prayers against the dreaded sea-sickness paid off, and I was miraculously unaffected during the long weeks of sailing.
The voyage home was uneventful. An air of elation hung over the fleet, for our transports and dromons were full of men who had survived a campaign that promised nothing but disaster. Not only that, they had triumphed, and were confident of being greeted as heroes at Constantinople. True, there was less joy to be found on the transports that carried the sick and wounded, but that only made the whole men more thankful for their deliverance.
For most of the voyage Belisarius did not speak to me, or so much as acknowledge my presence. He was eternally busy, spending long hours closeted below deck with his officers and advisors, and any spare time was eaten up by the demands of his wife.
He made a point of treating Gelimer as an honoured guest instead of a prisoner of war, and often invited the captive king to dinner. The ruthless Vandal king, who would have treated his enemy very differently had their roles been reversed, was no doubt baffled by such generosity. I smiled to think of him picking at his food and trying to be polite to the man who had destroyed his armies, conquered his kingdom and trampled his crown into the dust.
Some idea of the welcome that awaited us in Constantinople was given when the fleet entered the Sea of Marmara. I was on the foredeck, huddled in a thick cloak against the winter breeze, when I heard a shout from the look-out in the crow’s nest.
“Boats to the north!”
Belisarius was nearby, deep in conference with a group of officers. He frowned at the interruption, and then stalked over to the rail to shade his eyes and gaze north. His officers followed, and soon the deck was full of men talking in excited voices and pointing towards Constantinople.
I strained to look, and glimpsed a number of black shapes on the every edge of sight. As they came closer I made out boats, a whole fleet of them, galleys and fishing vessels and dromons.
“Silence!” shouted Belisarius. The deck fell quiet, and from over the choppy waters drifted the sound of voices raised in song.
Some of the approaching vessels were imperial warships, intended to act as an official escort for the fleet. Alongside them were dozens of boats manned by civilians, who had put to sea for no other reason than to welcome us home. Most of the noise was coming from these, and the people aboard waved and blew kisses and generally made a rapturous din. I remember one lumbering vessel crammed with black-robed priests, many of them green with sea-sickness, waving holy banners and icons and attempting to sing a Te Deum as their boat rocked alarmingly in the choppy waters.
The people roared at the sight of Belisarius. News of his victory had reached the city weeks ago. His role in the bloody suppression of the Nika riots was all but forgotten, buried under a wave of patriotic fervour and hero-worship. For a time at least they regarded him as a new Caesar, Scipio and Aetius all rolled into one, the man who would restore the glory of the Empire and roll back the hordes of foul barbarians that threatened to engulf it.
Belisarius looked taken aback by their acclamation. Modesty was one of his attractive traits, and he knew that this reception would do nothing to quell the Emperor’s jealous suspicion. He turned on his heel and hurried back to his quarters below deck, leaving orders for the fleet to follow the escort into the harbour of the Golden Horn.
His fears of the Emperor’s jealousy were soon allayed. One of the imperial vessels drew alongside the flagship, and a white-haired senator stood in the bows and bellowed through a trumpet that Belisarius had been awarded a triumph. This drew gasps from every man aboard ship. No Roman general had been awarded a triumph since the days of Trajan, some four hundred years previously.
“The Emperor has listened to reason, then,” remarked the captain of the guard, “good for him. He knows that our general commands the loyalty of the army and the people. Pity, really. I was looking forward to sticking my sword up of a few of his ministers.”
“That bastard John of Cappadocia, for one,” agreed another officer, “Belisarius should demand his balls on a platter, as the price for not sacking Constantinople.”
I should have been shocked at their treasonous words, expressed so casually in the open where anyone might hear, but it was nothing new. The easy victory in North Africa had filled our soldiers with a new confidence and swagger, bordering on arrogance. The discipline Belisarius had imposed on them during the campaign had long since slackened, and they might have posed a serious threat to the city if Justinian had insisted on pressing charges against their hero.
We soon learned there was no danger of that. The harbour was crammed with people, and the noise and singing and general ecstasy of the Roman populace is one of my most powerful and enduring memories. Many had thought the fleet would never return. To see it arrive, safe and whole and laden with the spoil of a victorious campaign, was beyond their wildest hopes.