Siege of Rome Read Online Free PDF Page B

to sack the town or molest the inhabitants.   
       I was sick of concealment, and of languishing in my own stench in the stuffy hold. The Huns were sick of me too, and watched impassively as I crawled feebly up the ladder onto deck.
       The sunlight was dazzling, and I had to shade my eyes until they grew used to the unacc ustomed glare. I tried to stand on the deck as it gently rose and fell beneath me, but my shaking legs gave way.
       A strong hand gripped my forearm as I fell, and hauled me upright. “Steady, old man,” said a familiar voice, “ we shall have to find you a stick to lean on.”
       I opened my eyes a crack and ga zed on the rugged, dark-skinned features of Bessas, one of Belisarius’ chief cavalry officers. He was a Thracian of Gothic origin, fluent in the Gothic language, and I had often overheard him croaking songs in that harsh, guttural language.
       Belisarius was a good judge of officers, and could scarcely have chosen a better man to lead his cavalry in Italy. Not only did Bessas speak the language of the enemy, but he was a tough, resourceful veteran of many campaigns, in his mid-fifties or thereabouts, and strong as a bull. His fingers had a grip like steel on my wasted arm. If he had increased the pressure, he might have snapped the bone.
       “Coel, isn’t it?” he asked after I had mumbled my thanks, “ our sickly Briton. God help us, you look like you’ve puked out your innards. I thought the Britons were a seafaring race?”
       “I am the exception,” I groaned, clutching my aching belly, “though doomed to spend my life being dragged back and forth across the sea.”
       Bessas smiled and patted me roughly on the back. “You can go ashore at once, if you like, ” he said, “look there.”
       He pointed at the hundreds of longboats and other smaller vessels that populated the stretch of ocean between our fleet and the coast. The city of Catania was visible to the east, dominated by the brooding shadow of Mount Etna. Procopius had informed me that the volcano last erupted during the days of the Roman Republic, and swamped the greater part of the city in an ocean of boiling lava and hot ash.
       Our entire army was disembarking, with a calm order and efficiency that made for a stark contrast to the last time I had witnessed a Roman army disembark, on the north coast of Africa. There all had been chaos and haste, as our sickness-ravaged soldiers struggled to shore in terror of the Vandals falling upon them at any moment.
       I spotted Belisarius on the fored eck, standing among a little knot of officers and advisors. Procopius was among them, listening and nodding gravely while the soldiers talked. He was wearing his enigmatic little smile, and I could guess his opinion of what was being said.
       Thankfully, there was no sign of Antonina, though a golden-haired young man among the officers might have been Photius. “I was appointed one of the general’s personal guard,” I said, “my place is by his side.”
       “Admirable,” smirked Bessas, “but you’re no use to him in your current state. Go ashore and recuperate. For now, the conquest of Sicily will have to proceed without you.”
       He gave me back to my Hunnish guards, who had followed me above deck like a couple of faithful hounds, and barked at them to take me ashore. Somehow I found the strength to climb down a rope ladder into one of the launches. I took my place alongside a group of Isaurian archers, and listened in silent misery to their excited chatter as the boat rowed into the shallows.
       I could see our army deploying on the broad plain south-west of the city, thousands of tiny doll-figures busily pitching tents and digging temporary fortifications. As usual, Belisarius was taking no chances. The majority of his troops would camp outside the city, along with the baggage, while troops of light horse were sent out to scout the countryside.
       Anxious to be rid of boats