Flame of the West Read Online Free Page B

one blinded by lust and ambition, would dally with that lethal woman. If Belisarius found out, as he surely would eventually, he would feed Theodosius to his dogs. Usually a merciful man, I had seen Belisarius when his temper was roused, and still shuddered at the memory of the Vandal spy he had impaled on an iron stake outside the gates of Carthage.
       The convoy reached the meeting point at Ostia without mishap, to find the fleet already disembarked and three thousand Isaurians encamped along the southern bank. They were in good spirits, though the journey from Constantinople had been long and fraught with danger, and grateful to be on dry land again after months at sea.
       John summoned a council in the evening, which all captains were required to attend. No-one invited Antonina, but she came anyway, borne on a divan carried by four sweating Huns. I avoided her gaze, and she never even glanced at me. Her lover Theodosius, young and handsome in the old-fashioned Greek style, with curling fair locks and a neatly trimmed beard, stood behind the divan in a silver helm and cuirasse polished to mirror-like perfection.
       Despite his soldierly appearance, everyone present knew what he was, and ignored him. No officer worth his pay was about to heed the suggestions of Antonina’s bedmate.
       The council had barely started before an alarm sounded, and there was a disturbance to the east: men shouting, horns blowing, and the sound of racing hoofs.  
       “What’s happening, there?” shouted John. For a moment it seemed we had fallen prey to an ambush. A line of torches blazed into view, heralding the arrival of a band of armed riders.
       The alarm and consternation died down when their banner became visible, displaying the familiar double-headed eagle of Rome. Under it rode another familiar sight, Belisarius himself, mounted on his white-faced bay. She had carried him through all his campaigns, from Syria to North Africa, Sicily and Italy, and enjoyed almost as much fame as her master. 
       We cheered the unexpected arrival of our general, but he was in no mood for ceremony. Lathered in dust and sweat, he wore a plain grey robe over his armour, and the flanks of his shuddering horse were slick with blood. He had a hundred Veterans at his back, hand-picked from his personal guard.
       “How many men have you brought?” he snapped at John without exchanging greetings, his voice taut with anxiety.
       John was used to more courteous treatment, and blinked before replying. “Ah…five thousand, sir,” he managed, “three thousand foot, and two thousand horse. I led the cavalry myself in a forced march across Campania after landing at Otranto…”
       Belisarius wasn’t interested. “Five thousand!” he yelled, throwing up his hands, “God and the Saints, that is nowhere near enough! Why has the Emperor forsaken me? Have I not served him to the best of my ability? I gave him North Africa, I conquered Sicily without losing a single man, I have defended Rome against the worst that the barbarians can throw at me, and still he denies me the reinforcements I ask for!”
       An embarrassed silence fell over the gathering of officers. Belisarius was beside himself, drawn and haggard and thinner than ever, his armour hanging awkwardly off his bony, meatless frame. What he said was almost, if not quite, treason, and there were many listening who might easily twist his words for their own ends.
       He must have been desperate to take such an appalling risk, quitting the safety of Rome and riding through the Gothic lines with just a handful of guards. Perhaps he did so in the certain belief that Justinian had despatched a mighty army to save Rome. Grief and disappointment were etched on his face.
       Antonina broke the silence. “My lo rd husband,” she said, “the Emperor must have sent every man he could find. There are rumours of plague in some of our provinces, and the imperial treasury is