The reports indicated he had succeeded in taking control of the surrendered gate with as few as a hundred fighters, at which point he called for support from an army that was encamped too far away to speedily provide it. It was also a force in which endless discussion must proceed any action, so by the time it began to advance it was too late. When they finally arrived outside Verona, Artabazes and his men were in dire straits.
They held the curtain wall but the Goths, having seen how tardy was the Byzantine response, had retaken the actual gate, which left Artabazes and his men isolated. Pleas that an attack should be launched to aid them to withdraw fell to another lengthy and ultimately destructive dispute amongst the various generals and that left those still fighting no choice but to get away as best they could.
A few, including their leader, managed to get off the walls by rope; most were obliged to jump with the obvious consequence that those not killed in the attempt suffered such damage to their bones that they fell as easy prey to the enemies. With a failed attack the Byzantines moved on Ticinum unaware that Totila had decided to give them battle and was also moving on the river.
In sole command he proved to be a better opponent than the divided foes he faced. As Flavius had always insisted, division in the counsels of command could not but be observed by the men they led. That meant a lack of faith in proper leadership, which made the mood of the army fragile. This was proved by what followed.
By the simple ploy of fixing the Byzantine front and giving battle, then bringing up a force unknown in number that he had sent across the river previously to attack their rear, Totila induced the kind of panic inclined to affect any badly led force. Almost without having to fight, he watched as the Byzantines disintegrated and fled the field.
That had ended the year’s campaign but when fighting was renewed in the spring Totila held the initiative and he was rampaging at will through the peninsula. In order to bring some cohesion to the Byzantine forces Justinian despatched a general with the rank of praetorian prefect, which gave him full authority to act in the Emperor’s name. But despite having men at his disposal the prefect was both timid in his actions and quite unable to command those he had been sent to lead.
Totila had bypassed Rome and captured city after city to the south, few of which had walls to resist him, and given those that did contained enemies that would not move from their protection, he was able to range all over Apulia and Calabria, depriving Justinian of the revenues of those provinces needed to sustain a badly paid army. The result was a raft of defections.
The prize for Totila was Naples, well garrisoned and with a strong fleet on the way from Rome to reinforce that. It was to no avail; Totila knew they were coming and intercepted them with a fleet of his own, inflicting a stunning defeat and capturing their commander, who was obliged, when paraded before the walls of the city, to tell the citizens of Naples it could not look forward to relief, and after a truce of three months the city surrendered.
‘Flavius, how good it is to see you.’
These words from Antonina, who had appeared in a ghost-like fashion from behind one of the great columns of St Sophia, who had found her husband in prayer. He was, as usual, asking that those for whom he cared, alive or dead, had the Lord’s blessing, a point he made to his wife when she was informed of his entreaties.
‘Am I included in such supplications?’
This was asked with that air of faux innocence that Antonina had ever been able to contrive and the look on her face was one that held no hint of guilt for what had happened, either in his trial or since.
‘Would you consider you deserve to be?’ he replied, getting up from his knees.
‘I would hope that you think of me kindly. I am after all your wedded wife.’
‘And an example to all in the depth of your attachment.’
Intended to dent her carapace it failed utterly, as does water off the back of a duck, which reminded Flavius that he was, in many ways, no match for her, the fact of that reinforced by what came next.
‘I was much distressed by what happened to you.’
‘And so quick to show sympathy. I am touched.’
‘In fact,’ she continued as if he had not spoken, ‘I was saying to the Empress that I reckoned your punishment to be too harsh.’
‘I am sure she was moved by your opinion.’
‘Theodora takes heed of what I say. I have told her you would readily seek her forgiveness.’
Her sudden appearance was suspicious in itself, after many months in which she had been distant. But Flavius had now become so inured to monarchical manoeuvring that he felt he could discern the undercurrent of what was happening.
‘She has nothing to forgive me for.’
The response came with something close to a sneer. ‘It is a poor sinner who prays yet cannot see his faults.’
‘Why are you here, Antonina?’
‘In church? What an odd question.’
That failed to satisfy; he knew from long past that while she paid lip service to religion and could be called upon for a bit of chest beating if there was an audience to impress, her faith did not run deep. She was wedded to earthbound power not the celestial.
‘I have thought about you a great deal since …’ That got a pulled and anxious expression; she did not want to refer to his downfall too openly. ‘Your difficulty. I have racked my mind to find ways to help you.’
‘Don’t tell me. You have pleaded with Theodora to meet with me.’
The eyes shot wide. ‘How did you know?’
‘I decided, since I had nothing else to occupy me, to study how to be a courtier in this sin pit of a palace, a place in which you seem so much at home.’
That finally got through her defences. ‘You have no idea of the effort I have put in to intercede on your behalf.’
‘No, I have not,’ was the mordant reply.
‘And after much begging I have got Theodora to agree to meet with you.’
‘How kind.’
‘Indeed, if you were to accompany me now, she is alone in her apartments and I know, if I ask, she will receive you into her presence.’
He wanted to refuse, to tell his wife and through her Theodora, to go to perdition, but against that was his present state of limbo, which was driving Flavius mad. Also, he had to believe that this was in truth a summons and that meant there had to be a reason behind it. Was his pariah status about to be withdrawn?
‘I can hardly wait,’ he said, indicating that she should lead the way.
That did not encompass a far journey; St Sophia was attached to the imperial palace by a private passageway and soon Flavius found himself in the presence of Theodora, alone as had been promised.
‘Highness,’ he said with a bow.
‘Do I observe humility, Flavius?’
‘Who could not be humble in the presence of such prominence and piety?’
The look that got, for she could see the barb, was one that indicated he could still irritate her and easily, which pleased him. More important was the fact of her muted reaction; there was promise here and if he had prayed for the souls of others in church, he now uttered a silent one for himself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
What was Theodora really saying when she claimed that the pleading of Antonina had led to a softening of the imperial position? That due to such intercession and her own application to Justinian, who, rumour had it was now recovered, had it in mind to end his present isolation and reinstate him in imperial favour. If anything underlined the falsity of that senatorial judgement it was this: the notion that on a whim any verdict arrived at could be overturned, though that hardly came as a surprise since the charges, wholly specious, had been inspired from the same source.