Byzantine Warrior: War in the East, African Adventures and the Italian Debacle

By Simon Huston

In 527AD Justinian is crowned Emperor but sends his young relative, Vitalian, to study in Alexandria.  The youth falls in love with the exotic pagan, Passara.  Disillusioned with academia, Vitalian enlists in the Legions.  Fighting in in Syria and the Caucasus transforms the pampered legate into a battle-hardened cavalry officer.  In 529, Vitalian arrives on the Danube front but that winter the barbarians swarm across the frozen river and capture him.  Meanwhile, in the East, General Belisarius withstands a Persians onslaught against the isolated fortress at Daras.  When the Emperor hears of Vitalian's fate, he orders the veteran, Zimarchus, to rescue him from the Dacian mines.  Zimarchus dies in the operation but Vitalian escapes the war-ravaged Bulgarian frontier and returns to the luxuriant court at Constantinople.  He becomes the personal bodyguard of the glittering Empress and former prostitute, Theodora.  As Egyptian and Orthodox priests squabble, rivalry at court pits the ruthless and debauched praetorian prefect, John the Cappadocian, against the Empress' protégés: Peter the Patrician, the eunuch Narses and Belisarius' unfaithful wife, Antonina.  Austerity, corruption and court machinations cripple the Byzantine economy.  In 532, the Nika revolt convulses the regime.  To cling on to power, mercenaries slaughter 30,000 rebels in the Hippodrome.  In the massacre's aftermath, Justinian cements his authority by rebuilding Hagia Sophia, denouncing heresy and planning reconquest.  The Arian Vandals in Africa are his first target.  Carthage becomes a hotbed of espionage as the Byzantines gathers intelligence for their planned invasion.  In 532, Euphemia - the Cappadocian's daughter - seduces the Vandal king, Gelimer.  The following summer, General Belisarius sets sail with a Byzantine expeditionary force.  Despite corruption, food contamination and Antonina's shameless perfidy, Belisarius routes the dissolute Germans.  Vitalian garrisons Corsica but, in 535, the Empress orders him to kill her rival, Amalsuintha.  The Goths have imprisoned their Italian Queen on Lake Bolsena.  Her murder provides the Byzantines a convenient pretext for invasion.  However, Belisarius initial victories fizzle out.  The Emperor, jealous of his now famous general, emasculates the Italian expeditionary force and muddles its command structure.  The inevitable consequence is civilian massacres and a stalemate.  In the East, the Sasanids ravage the frontier.  Not until Artabanes returns from Eastern Africa is peace eventually restored to Armenia.  Meanwhile, in Italy the Gothic war drags on interminably.  Farms are abandoned and Rome's population falls to 500.  Vitalian returns to Constantinople to beg Justinian for finance and reinforcements but Narses, now Chamberlain, frustrates him.  Languishing at court, the commander falls in love with the aristocratic and nubile Justina.  The couple return to Italy but their relationship sours as Narses power waxes.  In 553, the last Gothic king mortally wounds Vitalian.  The dying Byzantine commander dictates his memories but remains estranged from his beguiling spouse.  Vitalian's autobiography spans war in the East, Imperial adventure and the Italian debacle.  Priests urge Vitalian to confess - did he kill Amalsuintha as Theodora ordered?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon Huston
• Release date: Jul 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201146566

Simon Huston

Author, academic, analyst, accountant.  Multidisciplinary research for a sustainable world, involving strategy, performance management, sustainable investment, built environments and learning.  Thesis in Geographical Science from the University of Queensland (2010).  Served as a military medic/paratrooper/reconnaissance driver in Djibouti, Central Africa and Chad.  Studied Economics at LSE and Environmental Management at Durham University. Worked as an accountant for Deloitte in UK.  Taught across the education spectrum in Kenya and the Middle East (UAE, KSA, Oman). Worked as a commercial analyst for Queensland Government.  Subsequently, lectured Real Estate and Accountancy at The University of Queensland and three UK universities, including Coventry. 

Book preview

Byzantine warrior: war in the East, African adventures, and the Italian debacle

Simon Huston

3nd Edition

(1st Edition published in 2014 under alias, nom de plume: Peter Haig)

Cover image acknowledgments:

Benjamin Jean Joseph Constant (1875), L'Imperatrice Théodora au Colisée

Petar Milošević (2015), Mosaic of Theodora - Basilica San Vitale (A.D. 547), Ravenna, Italy

Benjamin Jean Joseph Constant (1875), L'Imperatrice Théodora au Colisée

Copyrights

Copyright © 2021 Simon Huston

(Alias, nom de plume: Peter Haig, 1st Edition 2014)

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except as permitted by law. This is a work of fiction although the characters, events and incidents are based on historical fact. The details and dialogue emerged from the author’s imagination.

Copyrights

Library of Congress

101 Independence Avenue SE

Washington, DC 20559-6000

1-846620471, lodged 04 Nov 2012

This work is registered with the UK Copyright Service:

Registration No: 284741924, lodged 11 July 2021

Registration No:284662552, lodged 04 Nov 2012

Byzantine Warrior: War in the East, African Adventures and the Italian Debacle © 2014, 2021 by Simon Huston (alias/nom de plume Peter Haig), is licensed under Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International

Dedication

To my parents, Elisabeth, and Jeremy

Introduction

T

he legacy of Antiquity is scattered around the Mediterranean. Some artefacts are prominent, but others remain buried beneath modern cities or stand in neglected groves. In Constantinople, Hagia Sophia and Temple of Athena stand in these twin modes as testimonies of former regal splendour. In 476, imperial regalia were repatriated to New Rome, but the Western Empire had disintegrated seventy years previously when barbarians swarmed over the frozen Rhine. The Eastern one survived a lot longer because the sea, deserts and Constantinople’s massive walls protected its productive agricultural heartlands from repeated assault. The Byzantine army adapted and became an agile cavalry strike force. From the Danube to the Euphrates, elite ‘excubitor’ and bucellarii warriors drove off Hun, Bulgar, Sclaveni and Sasanid foes.

Whilst the Byzantines considered themselves ‘Romans’, few of them spoke Latin. Merchants in Constantinople had long switched their business from war-racked Italy to flourishing Eastern markets. Sasanid Persia, like a phoenix, had resurrected from its Parthian ashes. In 527, tired of his decrepit and illiterate uncle, troops proclaimed Justinian emperor. Initially, the young sovereign bungled - he antagonised the Green chariot faction and Egyptian Monophysites. The Emperor’s secret police closed pagan temples and hunted down Manicheans, Donnatists and other heretics. Justinian learnt. To conquer African and Italy, two stumbling blocks thwarted him: insolvency and the Persian menace. To replenish state coffers, Justinian cut bureaucracy, raised taxes and simplified the law. To counter the oriental threat, the despot repaired the massive fortress at Daras. Unsettled, insulted, and denied tribute, the Persian despot, Kavadh, invaded.

Epigraph

Hic iacet Uitalianus tumulata. Provinciae Moesiae natus. Dic Byzantii milite servivit Roma bene annis sex et viginti Domine alienus ab DXXVII ad DLIII. Gothorum vulnus accepit bellator fortis qui pugnavit cum barbaris ad Istros, in Oriente, in Africa, et Italia. Fleveruntque eum filii sui et uxor pulchra. Militem Romam Salutant vos.

O stranger, Vitalian, native of Moesia, lies buried here. Go tell the Byzantines the soldier served Rome well for twenty-six years from 527 to 553. A gothic wound took a brave warrior who fought barbarians along the Istros, in the East, in Africa and Italy. His beautiful wife and sons mourn him. Soldier of Rome we salute you

Similar to funerary inscription found at ICUR 2.1 no 14 Amory 1997: 189.

Convention

Unfamiliar Latin or Byzantine place names or technical terms are generally in italics. Explanations are hyperlinked to or . Neither familiar place names nor any characters are italicised but are intermittently hyperlinked to . The Appendix also hyperlinks ancillary maps and suggests some enrichment web links.

Map

Roman Empire in classical times, Source: Wikipedia

Roman Empire in classical times, Source: Wikipedia

Table of Contents

Title Page

Byzantine warrior: war in the East, African adventures, and the Italian debacle

Contents

Copyrights

Dedication

Convention

Epigraph

Map

BOOK ONE: WAR IN THE EAST 527-530

Mount Vesuvius

Alexandria

Barbarian attack

Council of war

Germanus

Flavian

Balkan captive

Zimarchus

Adrianople

Empress, courtesans and courtiers

Narses

The Syrian

Emperor and notables

Inquisition

The Grand Palace

Augustus tu vincas

The Cappadocian

Slave trade

Imperial budget

Belisarius

Trial of Hercebolus

Strategy

Passara

Euphemia

Nsibis on The Eastern front

Persians

Infidelity

Bouzes

Battle at Daras

Trajan in Dacia

Insertion into Dacia

Ulpia Traiana

Escape to Byzantium

Honour or death

Passara reflects

Nika, Nika

Chrysopolis

Hypatius crowned

Revolt crushed

BOOK TWO: AFRICAN ADVENTURES 532-534

African seduction

African exploration

Invasion plans

Embarkation

African battles

Triumph

Euphemia

Insurgency

Poison, plots and popes

Silverius starves

Imperial metropolis

Barsymes

Basilica

Sedition

Impaled

BOOK THREE: ITALIAN DEBACLE 534-568

Italian preludes

Corsica

Murder in the lake

Shrine of Isis

Siege of Rome

Ariminum

Treason

Ravenna

Moors

Hunt for a gigolo

Butchery in Alexandria

Treachery

Megalensia

Crypt of Homisades

Forbidden passion

Love match

Ecstasy in Chrysopolis

Fornication

Italian quagmire

Banquet of death

Armenian plot

Battle of Taginae

Downfall in Capua

Drowning

Dwarf outraged

Bibliography

Glossary

Cast of characters

Chronology

Legions

Geography

External maps

Web resources

About The Author

Mount Vesuvius

T

he wrinkled eunuch, Narses, smashed his fist down.

‘I will end this war!’

The ape-like chamberlain squinted with his brown eyes at the sparkling Mediterranean, beyond Mount Vesuvius. For decades, the imperial army had fought itself to a standstill in Italy. Plague, religious squabbling, and court politics had crippled the overstretched Byzantines. Yet, the Empire hung on to its main sources of wealth – its agrarian tax base in Anatolia, a monopoly on Egyptian grain and a stranglehold on the silk trade.

‘Now, victory is mine!’

The dwarf sucked in fresh air, cleansed by lavender, and re-entered the villa. Inside, incense mingled with putrefaction. John Vitalian, the renowned excubitorlay dying of septicaemia [1]. Memories flickered in an out of his consciousness but one returned.

‘Last year at CumaeTeïas [2] lunged at me but I parried the blow and thrust my lance into the throat of the barbarian king. Drenched in gore, I watched the Goth choke and die but suddenly his eyes lit up and he accursed me:

'You murdered Amalasuntha!'

Vitalian repressed the haunting image of the blood soaked Queen, floating lifeless in her bath. Decades earlier, her death had plunged Italy into war but Vitaliancomforted himslef that he had only done his duty. A bearded priest pressed Vitalian.

‘Confess you murdered the Queen and embrace Christ or Satan will take your soul!’

‘Silence! Bring me my boys!’ Vitalian glared at the muttering cleric.

Outside, alarmed cicadas vibrated to a crescendo. Dusk cloaked the olive groves. Dark clouds rolled in from the Mediterranean to smother the volcano which had smitten Pompey in 79 AD. The storm broke, but over the drumming of the rain, Vitalian heard a knock. Justina, his estranged wife, entered. The children ran towards their father. The twenty-six-year-old Byzantine beauty unclipped the gold clasp of her palla to reveal the fine embroidery her silk stola[3]. Clouded by resentment, passion smouldered in Justina’s azure but treacherous aristocratic eyes. John felt the flutter of tiny hearts. He gazed up at his sons, eyes brimming with love. A slave tendered him a goblet of sour wine. John wet his lips. To one side, the muzzled prelate waited, nib poised over parchment, to transcribe John’s last will and testament. Ink dripped onto the papyrus. Time was running out. The dying warrior cleared his throat and spoke. This is his testimony [4].

1 One source, Ioannes, suggests Vitalian still served in Italy as late as 560.

2 Teïas died heroically probably in October 552 at Mons Lactarius S. of Naples. The year of the battle is disputed - some scholars date it to spring 553. In any event, the Goths put up a valiant defence to prevent the capture of their treasure by Narses. A javelin killed Teïas while he attempted to exchange his battered shield - studded with 12 spears. Jubilant, the Byzantines raised Teïas’ severed head on a pole, but still the Goths fought on overnight.

3 The palla was a mantle and the stola a loose tunic or dress. The stola symbolised a Roman matron’s virtue. Adulterers and prostitutes were forbidden to wear it.

4 The original autobiographical manuscript was transcribed in late 553. As Vitalian’s condition deteriorated, the copyist struggled to render his garbled monologue comprehensible. Consequently, historians have tended to overlook it. But modern technology enables us to decipher, previously inaccessible, scribbling. To render it suitable for modern audiences, I have extensively edited Vitalian’s testimony. For clarity, I re-structured fragments, elaborated conversations and inserted relevant historical detail.

Alexandria

N

early thirty years ago, I left Constantinople for Alexandria. The wind caught the sail of our naval patrol boat (dromone) and we cut through the surf of the Bosporus, heading out into the open Adriatic. That year, in 527, I was nineteen. My father’s instructions were:

‘Study hard. The physician Galen [5] learnt medicine in Alexandria. Egypt feeds the mob in New Rome. She suckles the slaves who forge the Empire’s weapons, build its ships and cultivate the imperial estates.’

Three weeks later, under its famous lighthouse [6], our dromone docked amongst the grain transports [7]. I descended the gangplank. On the bustling wharf, a bumptious friar greeted me but avoided eye contact. I was billeted near the great library [8]. Excited, the next morning, I woke early and searched for the classical texts of Plato and Aristotle. Curiously, the librarians obstructed, rather than, facilitated my inquiries. Confused, I went to my lecture but an ecclesiastic, not a scholar, fronted up. Pompously, the priest hectored us and denigrated paganism. Disappointment bred disillusion and finally disgust. A week later, I complained

‘Instead of Greek philosophy or strategy, garnered from the great battles of Thermopylae or Salamis [9], clerics force feed us Greek translations of Jewish texts’.

One day, I snapped.

‘I am not interested in muddled obscurities!’

I stormed out. I hurried along the Canopic Way [10]. From the porticos, merchants touted artefacts looted from tombs in the Valley of the Kings. At the Cibotus Harbour I pushed through a rabble of disembarked agricultural slaves. Drovers lashed them towards the imperial plantations. I avoided their vacant eyes, stamped with malnutrition and neglect. Still seething against the university, I sought refuge in the famous Bucephalus taverna on the wharf. I needed time to think. Idle dignitates- mainly second tier nobility on vacation - milled around.

‘One garum [11]stew please.’

Turning around, I almost collided with an aristocratic lady in her early thirties. She smelt of musk. Horusstamped on her golden clasp [12]. Her classical Greek features were, in fact, Lebanese. I apologised profusely but she recognised me, smiled, and shook her dark pleated locks.

‘You’re Vitalian, nephew of Flavius! I often dined with your uncle. Imagine, murdered in broad daylight on the steps of the Grand Palace itself and no one indicted!’

I immediately recognised Passara, the wife of General Germanus. Respectfully, I kissed the noblewoman’s cheek.

‘I’m enchanted madam.’

She whispered huskily, ‘Odd that we meet here in Alexandria?’

That afternoon, we lunched together. After juvenile monks, I savoured theAniciaristocrat’s heady perfume, husky voice, and feminine perspective. Passara’s voluptuous curves and fine gold jewellery calmed my jangled nerves. As she swirled her wine, I admired her finely manicured nails.

She explained:

‘Germanus paid for my Egyptian vacation but couldn’t travel himself. The war you know. I came here to research Hypatia [13]. The pagan astronomer always fascinated me. Did a mob or friars lynch her? I must find out!’

I replied, ‘Madam, you waste your time. Maybe faculty in Berytus or Athens still teach science but, here, they promulgate dogma!’

We talked all afternoon. I walked the Lebanese beauty home along the busy dock.

‘Vitalian, do come to dinner tonight’, her dark eyes flashed. She shook her raven coiffure and left me in a cloud of musk.

That evening, an Abasgian[14] eunuch opened the massive, carved door of the Anici villa. Silently, he escorted me past a bust of Alexander the Great [15] through the atriumand across the peristylewith its central fountain. The tricliniumoverlooked the green delta. Passara dismissed her ornatrix [16] and signalled me to recline. The hairdresser finished her braiding and layering and gathered up her phials into an ivory casket. Another domestic slave girl obsequiously proffered me a goblet of diluted wine in a silver chalice, depicting Dionysian lovemaking scenes. The Anicilady’s heady scent wafted over me, mingled with salt and seaweed. Outside, the sea sloshed around the pillars supporting the balcony. The coastal breeze ruffled the Persian silks of Passara’s dress and fluttered wayward strands of her long black hair. We spoke late into the sub-tropical night. To articulate, the tall and trim Anici aristocrat gestured but her long fingernails and rich red lips distracted me. It was an enchanted evening, spent with an elegant woman, but nothing happened.

Yet, the Sylphide had seared my soul. By chance, about a fortnight later, I met her again at the governor’s ball. Near the Temple of Artemis. The palace where Mark Antony had seduced Cleopatra jutted into the water. Roman expatriates crowded on its veranda. Out to sea, on Pharos, the immense lighthouse flickered. Passara’s delicate features marked her nobility. I prised her away from her companions. We kissed between statues of Osiris and Isis. Like the Egyptian goddess, Passara’s high cheekbones set off her dark mysterious eyes. Her mouth was rich and full of sensuality, turned down at its extremities, hinting at her sarcastic intelligence.

‘They say you abandoned your studies and accepted a commission?’, she whispered to me as we caressed.

‘Yes, Passara, I am disillusioned. Forget academia. Kiss me again my beautiful siren.’

But, foolishly, we parted without making any concrete arrangement for a rendez-vous. Passara haunted me: the snatched embrace, her lascivious tongue, the smell of musk, braided dark locks. A few days later, an imperial messenger galloped up to our camp at Nikopolis and handed me a dispatch.

‘TAKE UP COMMAND IN SYRIA’

It was signed by the Emperor. Because of my uncle’s exploits, the name ‘Vitalian’ carried some weight. Arabs had swarmed out of the desert to pillage Syria [17]. It was said, Al-Mundhir or ‘the desert fox’ had captured four hundred virgin nuns for his bloodthirsty Nabataean winged goddess. Rome called its officers to arms. At the next full moon, the fleet would sail for Antioch.

‘I will fight the Arab tribesmen raiding Syria but first I must see Passara.’

I rushed to the Anicivilla along the promontory. The dead eyes of the eunuch stared through the grill.

‘The mistress left yesterday for Myos Hormoson the Red Sea.’

For almost a month, I sailed upstream, past the massive fortress of Babylon that guarded the Pharo's Canal. I passed Heracleopolis [18] and finally disembarked at Koptos. I then rode hard for three days through Wadi Hammamat to the coast. I found Passara sitting in a garden reading Virgil [19], whilst her ornatrix polished her nails. She wasn't surprised. It was fate. Her dark eyes pierced mine, interrogating. Trembling, I blurted out, ‘I leave for war in a few days. I love you!’ She blushed, got up, shook her mass of dark braided curls, and kissed me.

'Come Vitalian. It’s been a long trip. You must relax. Slave….’

Once drinks were served, conversation flowed and soon the afternoon lengthened to evening. Across the lawn, through the magnolia bushes, papaya trees and coconut palms, whose fronds rustled soothingly in the gathering breeze of the twilight, the deep green swell of the Indian Ocean moved restlessly. The sky turned pink and then dark red. Beyond the foam of the breakers, crashing on the reef, dhows headed down the coast to Adulis and beyond it to India or Rhapta[20], on the East African coast.

I lost my virginity to the devotee of Cybele, the Magna Mater[21]. Passara expertly coaxed me to multiple orgasms. But her dark glinting eyes were not satiated. The pagan aristocrat hankered for ritual orgies and bull’s blood. A few weeks later, in spring 528, she finished her investigation. Passara concluded that bigoted monks had flayed Hypatia alive. Disgusted, she boarded a dromone, bound for Constantinople. I sailed for Antioch to join my troops, determined to flush out the rebel ‘desert fox’. But, true to his name, Al-Mundhir had vanished into the Nabataean sands. Our unit re-deployed to the Euxine (Black Sea). Our new mission was to secure the shipping lanes. We landed on the rocky coast of Crimea [22] to invest long-abandoned Greek forts [23].

In the autumn, we sailed to Lazica (Colchis) to re-assert imperial hegemony and chase out Persian infiltrators. Under bleak mountains, the raging PhasisRiver protected us from the cataphract charges. One morning snow fell over the Caucuses. Winter storms would soon hamper navigation – our beleaguered army would be trapped! The shrill note of a buccinasounded evacuation. We sailed from Lazica across the choppy Black Sea. On its Western shore, at Tomis, a legate on the quayside issued us fresh orders.

‘Legionaries, you fought well against the Medes, but Rome needs you here now. No barbarian must cross the Istros!’

Later, the legate told me.

‘Vitalian, tomorrow ride hard for Sexaginta Prista and present to the commander of Legio I (Italica).’

I saluted but thought, ‘most of my comrades are dead'. I want to go home. 'I am weary of this interminable war.’

Fate though was about to visit its full horrors upon me.

5 Galen (AD 129– 216) was a prolific Roman writer and is considered the ‘father of medicine’. Born in Pergamum he studied first at the prestigious local sanctuary or Asclepieum (dedicated to Asclepius, god of medicine). Then, the medic went to Alexandria to study anatomy and pharmacology. On his return from Egypt, Galen landed a job in a gladiator school. He cut its death toll from hundreds to just three. Later, he became the physician of Marcus Aurelius. In 166 AD, Galen was in Rome when smallpox struck Italy. In winter 168–69, Galen was posted to Aquileia to stop the spread if the disease amongst its garrison.

6 Built by the Ptolemy, it rose 400 feet (120 m) from the Island of Pharos and was one of the ancient wonders of the world.

7 Constantinople imported 175,000 tons of Egyptian wheat each year in 500 ships working in three rotations, operated by the guild of shipowners (naukleroi).

8 It reputedly housed half a million scrolls survived Caesar’s unintentional fire but, in the seventh century, Arab invaders burnt its priceless book collection as heating fuel.

9 In 480 BC, the Spartans holding action on land and Athenian nautical blockade were followed by the decisive naval engagement at Salamis and, the following year, by the Battle of Platea to rout the Persians invaders.

10 Canopic Way was the main boulevard which traversed the Alexandria from the eastern Sun to western Moon Gate. Perpendicular to the main street was the Heptastadion, a causeway linking the mainland toPharos Island. In 48 BC Caesar seized Pharos and wooed Cleopatra. Her palaceand Mark Antony’s Timonium jutted into the Mediterranean near a cluster of significant buildings (Library, Temples of Artemis and Poseidon).

11 Garum was Roman fish sauce made by fermenting anchovies.

12 Horus was an Egyptian deity, born on the winter solstice, who rose from the dead after three days.

13 Hypatia was a leading pagan philosopher and astronomer, skinned alive by monks or a mob in 415 AD.

14 For the Empire, the forests of Abasgia, north of Lazica (Colchis) were the prime source of eunuchs.

15 Alexander reputedly traced the outline of the city in the sand in 332 BC, a year after the Battle of Issus. See External maps / Issus.

16 A basic hairstyle involved a central parting with simple pleats tied-back. Later, more elaborate coiffures became fashionable. Roman notable women then spent hours with the ornatrix, frequently scolding them, to get high-piled hairstyles. An ornatrix mixed and applied unguents based on ochre, molluscs, or antimony, unaware of the danger of lead.

17 Kavadh had let them loose, angered by Byzantine interference in Lazica and the rebuttal of his proposal for the full adoption by Justinian of his third, (favourite) son.

18 Heracleopolis reached its apogee around 2,000 BC. It was the capital of Lower Egypt after the collapse of the Old Kingdom. In Roman times it was officially known as Ehnasya.

19 Virgil (70-19 BC) idealised Arcadia in his Eclogues and wrote the Aeneid, an epic mythical adventure about the foundations of Rome.

20 For the Greeks and Romans, the East African coast was called Azania (Periplus of the Erythraean Sea, 50-60 BC). Rhaptawas probably located either at delta of Panganior Rufiji River in modern Tanzania.

21 Cybele demanded blood sacrifice from her devotees (slaughtering bulls, self-mutilation, or castration).

22 In 528, operations were conducted to secure Black Sea shipping lanes. Marine forces, led by John, son of Rufinus, stormed ashore to pacify the Crimea and Special Forces were inserted into Lazica (Georgia) to dislodge Persian intruders.

23 From the fifth century BC and earlier, colonies like Theodosia, Phanagoria, Hermonassa and Dioskurias shipped salted fish, caviar, wheat, and slaves to Greece. Athens depended on these critical foreign food imports. In 405 BC, once Sparta blockaded the Dardanelles after her victory Aegospotami, she surrendered.

Barbarian attack

S

exaginta Prista [24] is a forlorn and dangerous military outpost between Novae and Durostorum. It predates the new forts Justinian built along the Istros frontier by some five hundred years. Built by Vespasian in 69-70,Sexaginta Prista was sacked during the turmoil of the third century but then rebuilt and upgraded by Diocletian.

I galloped up to the walls of the praesidium (fortification) at dusk, weary by the long trip from Tomis. A veteran escorted me through a labyrinth of trenches to the command post. En route, we stopped to gaze at the immense river as it slid past the sombre pine forests of its barbarian shore. It would soon freeze over. A damaged naval patrol boat emerged from its fog-shrouded surface and docked. Surgeons dragged away the wounded. We squeezed past heavily laden mules carrying munitions (calthrops and plumbatae) to forward positions. The veteran pulled a canvas flap aside and we entered the command dugout. In the gloom, officers poured over a map. The scarred and tattooed legate, Guntarith, looked up, grim-faced. His green, cold-blooded eyes fixed me.

‘Vitalian, we are on full alert. I swear by Mithras, the Bulgars [25] will attack! You will taste blood boy. Remember – be vigilant!’

Taking a swig from his wine goblet, he dismissed me. The taciturn veteran escorted me back to my billet. We passed the hospital where surgeons operated. On the dissection table, I saw the mutilated corpse of a young legionnaire – a gruesome sacrifice to cruel barbarian gods. Even today, decades on and close my own death, the image of that blood-splattered young face still haunts me. At the time, the veteran whispered: ‘Prior to an attack, the Bulgars dismember their prisoners!’

I was forewarned. Disturbed, only fitful sleep came. I got up. The sky glowed red with fire, burning on the enemy bank. Smoke drifted over the river and choked me. Later, drumming, and ghoulish war cries reverberated over the dark water until, abruptly, silence. Concerned, I ran to the guardhouse, buckling on my spatha.

‘I must check on my sentries’, I thought.

In Roman military tradition, men caught asleep on watch were clubbed to death. Over the snow-blanketed forest, the mournful tone of a buccinaresonated from one of our advanced strongpoints. Over there, frightened imperial conscripts stared out from their dugouts into the mist, lest axemen rush them from the shrouded pines. Gusts of icy wind whistled from the distant peaks of the Carpathians. Packs of ferocious wolves [26] roamed the bleak forests, adapted to a diet of human flesh, scavenged over centuries from battlefield carrion. The mammals’ mournful howls terrified the urban conscripts, shivering in the mud.

Under moonlight, I strode towards the first post, snow crunching underfoot. It was bitterly cold. Overhead, a glittering panoply of stars. A sentry stamped his feet in the shadows. I was surprised to see the veteran again. He saluted and muttered by way of greeting:

‘Yesterday, I pulled several mangled corpses from a muddy foxhole’.

The veteran blew steamy breaths onto his frozen hands and resumed his grim vigil over the ice. Far away in Sinope [27], his children waited with a sense of foreboding. Amongst our troops, frontier duty bred resentment. Death rates were high – every year we lost about a quarter of our men. And for what? Even my fellow officers questioned the regime’s legitimacy or railed against its inefficiencies. In short, cynicism poisoned the entire Roman army. Its roots were buried in a history of catastrophic defeats. In 260, Sharpur flayed alive the Emperor Valerian. In 363, Julian the Apostate retreated in disarray from Ctesiphon and in 378 Valens perished [28] with most of the Eastern army at Adrianople.Huns and other Mongoloid marauders continuously ravaged the Balkans [29] and, in Italy, the Goths ruled. Rome itself had twice been sacked: first in 410 and again in 455. More recently, in 468, Gaiseric burnt the Byzantine fleet near Carthage [30], crippling the Empire with debt.

Over two hundred leagues [31] south, in Constantinople, my friends celebrated. I imagined the scene: Bouzes, the aristocratic cavalry officer kissed the wet lips of Euphemia, the Cappadocian’s sultry daughter. Nearby, basking in the glow of a brazier, the impetuous Gepid general Mundus [32] gulped fine wine while ogling the mystical, dark-haired Passara. Here on the frontier, it was her love or its delusional mirage, which sustained me through privations and brutality.

‘CLICK’

The noise dispelled my meditations and my mid returned abruptly to Moesia. It was four in the pre-dawn and I was cold and scared. Panic gripped me momentarily. I suppressed it to regain my martial spirit. I ran back to the veteran. We listened intently and scoured the obscurity below the ramparts but…nothing. Still, I remained nervous.

‘Sir, the fog rolling in from the frozen river, could obscure the enemy.’

I ignored the veteran’s remark and flung back my cloak. As I resumed my watch. In the distance, the ice covering the Istros creaked restlessly over the murmur of its depths [33]. Involuntarily, memories of happier times bubbled up: a party in Constantinople: music and the stilted laugh of a sultry brunette feigning nonchalance. She was the courtesan, Theodora. Her strange emerald eyes locked onto a new guest. She immediately recognised him as Prince Justinian, the cousin of the decrepit Emperor, Justin. Theodora had met the imperial heir some months before in Antioch. Justinian’s eyes shimmered with unquenched ambition. Official exonerations notwithstanding, everyone knew the prince had orchestrated the murder of my uncle, General Flavius Vitalian. But Justinian’s blood-stained hands tantalised Theodora and the penetrating gaze of his red eyes ignited the soul of the Byzantine beauty.

Naturally I resented the cold-blooded execution of my uncle whom, a decade previously, Zimarchus had cut down on the steps of the imperial palace. The assassin despatched two underlings. His bloodthirsty eyes locked on onto my innocent ones that stopped his raised sword. Justinian, standing nearby, yelled out:

‘No, Zimarchus not the boy!'

The murderer fled, chased down the Mese by scholarians but the overweight guardsmen, encumbered by decorative robes, lost him.

A gust of wind dispelled my recollections but the name ‘Zimarchus’ was chiselled into my brain. The wind cut under my woollen tunic and scattered desiccated leaves across the icy ramparts. The frozen flagstones sucked the warmth from my body

‘A decade on’, I reflected, ‘my uncle’s killer still serves his master who is now emperor.’

I wiped the sleet from my steel-studded breastplate. Fog swirled up menacingly from the river.

‘Meanwhile, I freeze in this hole, waiting to be butchered like a dog.’

Recently, Bulgar [34] activity along the frontier had increased alarmingly. Now, patrols were routinely attacked. Only yesterday, while foraging, my auxiliaries stumbled upon the cadavers of imperial troops cut down in the forest. The decapitated corpses were strewn between frosted ferns under sombre pines. News of the butchery would barely register in Constantinople – it thrived on chariot races, court gossip and the annona (bread dole). At most, a scribe would mechanically etch details of the incident onto military parchments. Only months later would official notification reach distant relatives to ignite belated wailing in Cappadocian villages, remote from the Teutonic forests where wild boar turned over the whitened bones of fallen sons. Inscriptions on stele bear witness to such grief.

After a few steps I again halted and scrutinised the gloom.

‘Was my mind playing tricks with the wind?

But no, I heard a quite distinct noise - a barely audible click as a weapon was unsheathed with a guttural curse. Then a succession of sounds - muffled footsteps, disturbed gravel, and the snapping twigs. I peered intently but in vain. Then, the silver moon pierced the clouds to illuminate the riverbanks. Waves of enemy soldiers ran through the undergrowth towards the wall. I raced along it, kicking up snow and slush, to the nearest watchtower and burst into the warmth of the guardhouse.

‘Barbarians! Sound the alarm. Get up! We're under attack!’

At first, Lechguy, the small Arabic officer merely blinked in disbelief, but my intense stare finally impelled the Syrian to shout and yell at his sleepy legionnaires, struggling to recall official military protocol. Then, astonishingly, the officer retreated to his quarters. I fumed at the spectacle of incompetence.

‘The Arab is in a state of denial’, I surmised. I shouted after him, ‘Escapism won’t preserve your carefully groomed military record!’

But a centurion pushed through his underlings and saluted. Ramil was a huge ponderous and dangerous Isaurian whose mood slipped from sickly friendliness to violent rage when he his status or personal interests were threatened. Ramil slapped and punched awake the somnolent sentries and hustled