Flame of the West Read Online Free

control of my horse, and steered her with my knees, Herul-style, stabbing right and left with Caledfwlch.
       My panic ebbed away. The Gothic spearmen scattered, their ordered ranks dissolving into a mob of confused and frightened men, taken unawares as they watched the battle unfold before the gates of Rome. They outnumbered my levies at least three to one, but we had the advantage of surprise.
       I did my best to make it count, urging my horse deeper into their squadrons, bellowing like a mad bull. Caledfwlch was slippery to the hilt with barbarian blood, and my men did terrible execution, fanning out to strike down the fugitives with spears and spathas.
       We carved a lane right through the centre of the Gothic army, until I found myself in the heart of the storm, surrounded by fighting men, on foot and horseback, stabbing and hacking at each other. Great clouds of dust rolled and billowed across the field, tinted by red mist. Bodies lay everywhere, twitching and bleeding in their death-throes. The ground was littered with broken weapons, fallen standards and bits of abandoned gear.
       A division of Gothic cavalry were entangled with some of our infantry and a unit of horse-archers. My levies had crashed into the heaving, surging combat, and now all was confusion. Officers rode about like lost sheep, losing sight of their commands as Roman and Gothic banners dipped and mingled in the throng, a meaningless riot of colour.
       I was fighting for my life, and had little idea of the general progress of the battle, but was later able to piece events together.
       Belisarius had deliberately advanced too far beyond the Pincian Gate, and exposed his flanks to a Gothic counter-attack. Vitiges seemed to have forgotten who he was fighting, and blundered straight into the trap. At about the time my levies were making short work of the Gothic spearmen, Belisarius had sounded the retreat, and his entire army started to withdraw. Smelling blood, the Goths pursued with wild abandon, thinking they had the Romans at their mercy.
       I knew little of what was happening, having lost touch with most of m y command in the general chaos. The trumpeter and standard bearer had stuck close to my side, and I looked around for some high ground, where I might try to rally my scattered men.
       A blast of trumpets and bucinae rose above the hellish, ear-splitting noise of battle. I glanced north, and saw the Roman banners moving away, back towards the grey walls of Rome. The eagle was retreating.
       The Goths uttered a great shout of triumph, and the sea of bodies around me gave a violent lurch, as though a powerful current had run through it. I found myself carried along, helpless against the tide, crouched low over my horse’s neck as enemy warriors stampeded past me, chanting their war-songs.
       To raise my head in that heaving mass meant death. Somehow my horse kept her footing, and not one Goth stopped to turf me out of the saddle. They had a greater quarry to chase.
       When the din had died down a little, I risked looked up, and found myself alone. The plain around me was deserted, save for a few scattered corpses and the occasional riderless horse, peacefully cropping at the trampled grass.
       I gently turned my own horse about, and looked upon the destruction of the Gothic army.
       The Romans had fled with all speed to the Pincian Gate, hotly pursued by the enemy. To the west, close to the banks of the Tiber, lay the Flaminian Gate, which Belisarius had ordered blocked up with rubble. I remembered doing my part to seal the gate, sweating in the Italian sun as I heaved lumps of stone onto the pile under the arch.
       Unknown to me, and certainly to the Goths, Belisarius had ordered the stones removed during the night before the battle. As the Gothic cavalry rushed towards the walls, hoping to cut down our fleeing soldiers and force entrance into Rome, a single trumpet-blast rang out on the parapet.
       The