Flame of the West Read Online Free Page A

Flaminian Gate rumbled open and the bucelarii charged out, a thousand lancers in shining lamellar armour, their bright pennons and streamers flying in the wind.
       They hit the Gothic cavalry in flank. Horses and men vanished under the impetus of their storm-charge, and entire squadrons were smashed to pieces, the survivors scattering in all directions. The bucel arii were supremely disciplined. Instead of pursuing they plunged into the crumbling ranks of Gothic infantry.
       I had seen the m at work before, at Tricarum, where their repeated charges broke the back and the spirit of the Vandal host. Belisarius had spent much of his personal fortune on their training and equipment, his elite cavalrymen, modelled on the heavily armoured lancers used by the Sassanids in the East. Any one of them was a match for ten ordinary soldiers, and was an expert with lance, bow and sword, as well as a consummate horseman.
       As at Tricamarum, I was privileged to watch them from a distance. They tore the Goths apart, slaughtering the hapless infantry like pigs and giving them no respite to rally and re-form. At the same time Belisarius led his personal guard in a counter-attack from inside the Pincian Gate, and the tottering Gothic host was caught between two fires.
       By now some of my levies had returned to the standard, though at least half were missing, either dead or plundering the defenceless enemy camp.
       “What do we do, sir?” asked my standard bearer. He was just a lad, beardless, fresh-faced and trembling with excitement, and clearly dying to strike his blow.
       Hundreds of Goths were fleeing back across the plain, making for the safety of their stockades and entrenchments. They looked like a panic-stricken mob, all discipline and courage gone, their banners and weapons left sprawling in the dust.
       I had seen enough of war to know what happened to those who tried to get between fugitives and safety. Even the worst coward can show fight if denied his last refuge.
       “We withdraw,” I said, ignoring his look of disappointment, “back to the Appian Way.”
     
       I gave the order, and led my remaining men west, to rejoin John the Sanguinary.
     
    4.
     
    We caught up with the convoy on the last stage of its journey to Ostia. I reported the news of Belisarius’ victory before the gates of Rome, though refrained from mentioning my own modest role in it. A vain man himself, I sensed John was quick to spot vanity in others, and would not give him an excuse to think me arrogant.
       “You did reasonably well,” he said when I had finished my report, “and it is good to know the general has made our task that much easier. Plenty of Goths killed, eh?”
       “Hundreds, sir,” I replied, “but merely a drop in the ocean. Belisarius lacks the numbers to inflict a significant defeat on them.”
       John stroked his carefully oiled and combed whiskers, and gazed west, towards the sea. Our fleet was hugging the coast, on its way to meet the convoy on the southern bank of Ostia. The northern bank, along with the harbour, was still in the hands of the Goths.
       We had to devise a way of getting the supplies of corn and wine into Rome. His gaze switched from the west to the convoy, the long, meandering line of ox-drawn wagons lumbering along the highway.
       “Those beasts will be done in by the time we get to Ostia,” he muttered, referring to the teams of oxen. Our advance was rapid, and the drivers were pushing the animals hard, lashing and cursing them with equal vigour. 
       To the rear of the convoy, escorted by twenty Hunnish lancers and drawn by a team of white horses, was Antonina’s litter. The silk curtains were closed, protecting her from the dust and stink of the convoy. It was all too easy to imagine her lithe form reclining on cushions inside.
       Perhaps her new lover Theodosius was lying beside her. I envied the man, without wishing to swap places with him. Only a fool, or