Belisarius now found the necessary artisans for making new city gates. Soon the task was done and the gates in position. Before the end of February he could send a set of keys to Justinian at Constantinople; asking, in return, for reinforcements to enable him to complete the reconquest of Italy, and money to pay the troops under his command. ‘He gives twice, who gives quickly,’ Belisarius wrote, ‘and I trust to make speedy repayment with the person and treasures of another captive king.’
He wrote not once but three times, and my mistress wrote also to Theodora. No reply and no reinforcements came. When he had put the necessary garrisons into Ostia and Civita Vecchia, he stood in greater need of a field army than ever before, and he was now paying the regular troops as well as those of his Household with treasure from his own purse. Nor was it possible, though he tried this, to lay even the smallest taxes upon the impoverished Italians. They possessed neither money nor anything that could be exchanged for money.
Justinian at length replied that he had already sent a large army to Italy under Valerian. He commanded Belisarius and Bloody John (who had not met for three years now) to be reconciled to each other. They were to join forces at Taranto, where this army should by now have arrived.
But Valerian remained for months on the farther shore of the Adriatic, detaching only 300 men for service in Italy. It was no fault of his: Illyria was being raided again – not by Bulgars this time, but by Slavs, in enormous undisciplined numbers – and Valerian had orders not to leave Durazzo until the danger had passed. The general commanding the Imperial Forces in Illyria dared not risk an engagement with the horde of Slavs, but followed ineffectively in their rear from district to district. His caution was due to the mutinous mood of the troops, who had not been paid for several months, and, in lieu of pay, now plundered the already plundered countryside. The whole Diocese had reached the condition described by the Jewish prophet Joel: ‘That which the palmer-worm hath left, hath the locust eaten; and that which the locust hath left, hath the canker-worm eaten; and that which the canker-worm hath left, hath the caterpillar eaten.’
We did not know of this Slav invasion, or of Valerian’s delay, and sailed for Taranto cheerfully. With us were all the troops that could be spared from garrison service – a mere 700 horsemen and 200 infantry. I, for one, was not sorry to say good-bye to Rome. As we left the Port of Rome early in June and were carried by a favourable breeze towards the Straits of Messina, we all had hopes of a speedy and victorious return to Constantinople. After passing through the Straits our sailing ships, now towed by the galleys, struggled against the wind along the ‘sole of the buskin’, as that part of Southern Italy is called because of its shape on the map. We were headed for Taranto, which lies in the angle of the buskin’s high heel. But, to continue this geographical figure, we had not yet passed the ball of the foot when a tremendous north-easterly gale struck us and we were driven to take refuge at Cotrone, where was the only safe anchorage within a great many miles. At first it seemed a dangerous position: few troops, an unwalled town, the Gothic army not far away, grain scarce, the wind continuing to blow strongly from the north-east. Belisarius persuaded all the able-bodied inhabitants of the town, men and women, to assist his infantry in fortifying the city with a stockaded rampart and a fosse; and sent the 700 cavalry ahead to hold two narrow defiles in the range of mountains, at the instep of the buskin, which enclose and protect this district of Cotrone. But the longer he viewed the situation, the better he liked it. The district was rich in grazing grounds and well stocked with cattle. He pointed out to his officers that the mountains made it a natural fortress, far more convenient for organizing his forces than Taranto. ‘It was a lucky wind blew us here,’ he said. ‘This will be the assembly-place of the armies.’
Then, while he supervised the facing of the rampart with stones and the construction of towers, still waiting for the wind to change, disaster came upon him. His 700 horsemen had hardly reached the mountain passes which he had directed them to occupy when they sighted a large force of King Teudel’s lancers. These Goths were on the way to besiege Rossano, a neighbouring city on the coast between Cotrone and Taranto. It was in Rossano that Bloody John had stored all his plunder of the last three years, and many Italian noblemen had also taken refuge there. The 700 laid an ambush and routed the lancers, killing 200 of them. But victory gave them a false sense of security, so that with no Belisarius to watch them they neglected their duties, posted no sentries in the passes, despised the enemy. They spent their time foraging in small parties, or playing games, or hunting. King Teudel suddenly came against them in person one day at dawn at the head of 3,000 life-guards and caught them entirely unprepared. They fought bravely, but to no purpose. Teudel’s Goths rode down all but fifty of them, who reached Cotrone with the news only a few minutes before the arrival of Teudel. The fortifications of the town were not yet completed, for they were planned on a large scale, and Belisarius had no choice but to re-embark instantly with the 200 infantry and the fifty survivors of his cavalry. Cotrone was left in Teudel’s hands. The gale which had delayed our voyage to Taranto was still blowing, and carried us in a single day the whole distance to Messina in Sicily, which is 100 miles.
There is not much more to relate of Belisarius’s last campaign in Italy. He drew 2,000 men from the garrisons of Sicily, and embarked them in ships for Otranto, which we reached without further accident. The ‘large army’ promised by Justinian presently arrived there from Spalato under Valerian, and another ‘large army’, direct from Constantinople, which was intended, I suppose, to clinch matters. The combined forces amounted to barely 3,000 men, most of them being untrained recruits!
Belisarius said to my mistress: ‘My dearest, this army is like three drops of water on the tongue of a man dying from thirst. I confess to you that my resources are at an end. I have now spent all my personal treasure in the expenses of this war, except for a few thousand gold pieces; I have mortgaged half my property in Constantinople and sold outright my estates at Tchermen and Adrianople. Much money is owed me that I cannot collect. There is, for example, the matter that I have concealed from you, for shame – my dealings with Herodian, the general who commanded at Spoleto two years ago. He had borrowed fifty thousand gold pieces from me for three months, without interest; telling me, truly enough, that he had been left a large legacy by an uncle, and that he needed money for paying and feeding his troops. When, after six months, I asked him for repayment, knowing that the legacy money had arrived for him at Ravenna, he insolently threatened to sell Spoleto to the Goths if I pressed him so barbarously, and to pay me with the proceeds. When I reproached him for this answer he did indeed sell Spoleto, and became one of Teudel’s boon companions. He now has my money, his legacy, and the reward for betraying Spoleto; I have nothing. The Emperor himself owes me an enormous sum for what I have advanced to the regular troops on his behalf. Of that I make no complaint; I dedicate my life to the Emperor’s service, and am honoured to be his debtor. But without men and money no war can be fought.’
My mistress replied: ‘Let me go in person to Constantinople, my dearest husband. I undertake that the Empress will persuade the Emperor that either a great army and plenty of treasure must be sent for the reconquest of Italy or that Italy must be abandoned to the Goths. You may be sure, my love, that I shall not delay over the business.’
So she sailed away, and I with her; and it was now mid-July. The journey was tedious because of contrary winds. We were coasting around Greece, having just passed the island of Salamis, when a ship from Salonica came bowling down the breeze on our starboard. I was standing on the forecastle, and shouted out in Latin: ‘What good news have you, sailors?’ For it is unlucky at sea to ask for any but good news.
The mate of the vessel shouted back: ‘Good news indeed. The Beast is dead.’
I cried: ‘What Beast, excellent man?’
There was a confused shout in answer. The ship was almost out of hail as I shrilly repeated, ‘What Beast?’
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A sailor, making a trumpet of his hands, bawled back into the wind: ‘Perierunt ambo’, meaning ‘Both are dead.’
Then we heard a great shout of laughter, but nothing more.
We guessed the name of one of the two Beasts correctly – the whale Porphyry; but there was much speculation in our vessel as to the identity of the other. So Porphyry had met his death at last! The account we heard at our next port of call was somewhat absurd. We were well aware that Porphyry, because of the construction of his throat, only ate small fry; but he was now credited with having pursued a flock of dolphins into shallow water close to the mouth of the river Sangarius (which flows into the Black Sea about a hundred miles to the eastward of the Bosphorus) and engulfed a dozen of them, and to have been busy chewing their bones when found stranded on a mud-bank close to the shore. What really happened, I believe, was that Porphyry and the dolphins were both in pursuit of a very large shoal of little fish, and that Porphyry was enticed into shallow water by the dolphins. In any case, the fishermen of the neighbourhood came up in boats and attacked Porphyry with axes and boat-hooks. He was so fast in the mud that he could not hoist up his tail to destroy them. However, he seemed proof against all their weapons, so they passed a number of heavy ropes around him and, by means of a pulley attached to a great tree by the river-bank, hauled him ashore. Then they fetched soldiers from a neighbouring post, who dispatched him with long spears. Porphyry measured forty-five feet in length and fifteen feet at his broadest part. He provided the district with food for many months; since what meat they could not eat fresh they smoked or pickled. In the flesh of his head – or her head, for Porphyry proved to be a cow whale – they found embedded a long arrow with white feathers, doubtless the same that Belisarius had once fired, but in the throat no blue-painted catapult-spear.
The other Beast to which the sailor had referred was no Beast at all, to my mistress’s way of thinking. Indeed, so far from being good news, it was the worst news that we could possibly have received from the city: Theodora was dead. A sudden cancer beginning in her breast had spread rapidly through the whole of her body, and she had died, not without courage, after a few weeks’ sickness and much pain.
Our grief was mixed with wonder. It was recollected now that the whale’s first appearance in the Straits had coincided to a day with Theodora’s first arrival in the city with Acacius her father – as its death had coincided with hers to the hour; and further that on the day that Belisarius and the Blue militia went out against Porphyry and wounded the beast, Theodora had been struck with a fearful aching of the head which had plagued her intermittently ever since. Was Porphyry, then, her familiar spirit?
My mistress Antonina immediately went into mourning for Theodora, and later sacrificed a black ram with pagan prayers for her ghost. She said: ‘The Christian God has been placated by many masses. But Theodora secretly reverenced the Old Gods also.’
We nevertheless continued our voyage, since my mistress felt that, having come so far, she should at least attempt to make Justinian see reason about the Italian campaign.
My mistress found the Emperor by no means grieving for Theodora’s death, but very jolly, like a little boy whose nurse or mother has suddenly fallen sick and left him at liberty to do all the naughty things he pleases. He had been removing from their sees or cures all the clergy with Monophysite leanings whom Theodora had protected. Also, though he was sixty-five years of age, he had begun a career of promiscuous passion, to make up for all the years of restraint under Theodora. His virility lasted him, indeed, for another fifteen years. His agents constantly searched the slave-markets for good-looking girls; and besides this he debauched the daughters of many of Theodora’s ladies. To the Lady Chrysomallo’s grand-daughter, who shrunk from his embraces, he said affably: ‘Your grandmother was just the same, my dear. But she did what I required of her, because that was her obligation.’
He made himself Theodora’s sole heir, cancelling all her legacies – including a very large one indeed to my mistress, and 5,000 in gold for myself, who was mentioned very graciously in the will.
At the audience which he granted my mistress immediately upon her arrival, she told him very plainly and precisely how matters stood in Italy. He listened with apparent concern. But, at the news that Belisarius had only 150 men of his bodyguard with him at Otranto – 100 were defending Rossano, and the rest were either killed or had been left behind in the neighbourhood of Rome – and that he was a poor man again, this evil Emperor could not conceal his satisfaction.
He said to my mistress: ‘So the victorious Belisarius has acknowledged failure at last, eh? But, no, no, we cannot repay the money that he has foolishly spent in his ridiculous campaigning. Why, what a cowardly way to manage a war – to sail from this port to that, to shelter behind fortresses, to avoid battle! Eh, Narses? He should have taken a lesson from our brave John, who fears nothing. Certainly we cannot send him either more men or more money. This Count Belisarius cries in the voice of the horse-leech’s daughters mentioned by King Solomon: “Give! Give!” Solomon, you will recall, held that four things are never satisfied – the grave, the lechery of a barren woman, sandy soil, fire. Had wise Solomon been living now, he would doubtless have added the name of Count Belisarius as fifth insatiate.’
When he had finished, my mistress asked quietly: ‘But Italy, Your Clemency? Are you prepared to lose your dominion over Italy?’
He replied: ‘No, indeed, Illustrious Lady Antonina, and for that reason we shall now recall your husband from that land and appoint a more capable commander in his stead. But we do not wish to humiliate the good fellow: we shall be careful to state in the letter that his services are needed once more against the Persians, who still dispute the possession of Colchis with us.’
She made an obeisance. ‘As Your Serenity pleases. Let the order of recall be made at once. No doubt your Grand Chamberlain, the brave Narses, will be equal to the task in which my Belisarius has failed.’
Justinian replied, disregarding the irony: ‘We shall give your suggestion the fullest consideration.’
He called for parchment and ink and seemed about to sign the recall there and then, but suddenly laid down the purple-stained goose-quill which had been placed in his hand. He said: ‘Softly, softly! We require an undertaking from you first, best of women.’
My mistress answered: ‘If it lies in my power, I will give it.’
He informed her with a crafty smile: ‘We require that you sign a document breaking off the marriage-engagement between your daughter Joannina and Anastasius, my late Empress’s nephew.’
My mistress Antonina thought quickly. There seemed to be no reason for refusing his demand, since at Theodora’s death Anastasius had ceased to be a person of any importance. It might be that Justinian intended the girl as a bride for one of his nephews or grand-nephews – perhaps Germanus’s son Justin – believing that she would bring a handsome dowry with her.
My mistress replied: ‘It is my pleasure and my husband’s to obey Your Serenity in all things.’
When she had signed the document that was thereupon made out for her, someone – I think young Justin – sniggered. The snigger spread among those standing near him. Justinian looked about him encouragingly and began to chuckle and roll about on his throne; unrestrained laughter soon possessed the whole audience-chamber. My mistress was embarrassed, angry, and puzzled. She made another obeisance and retired.
The fact was that my mistress had been cruelly tricked. She was wholly unaware of what had been happening all this time to her gay daughter Joannina. Joannina, now in her fifteenth year, had long anticipated her marriage-day, which had been postponed until her parents could be present at it; for with Theodora’s consent she had until recently occupied a suite of the Palace with this Anastasius ‘Long-Legs’, with whom she was much in love, just as if she were his wife. Upon Theodora’s death the usual Christian conventions had been restored at Court; Joannina was desired to return to her own suite. But
although Justinian would have discountenanced the marriage of a patrician with a woman who was undeniably not a virgin, Anastasius meant to keep to the contract, being in love with the poor girl. Now my mistress had broken the contract irrevocably, had unwittingly signed away Joannina’s chance of ever marrying a man of her own rank. This was a bitter shame to my mistress, and to Belisarius when he heard of it. Joannina pleaded that Theodora had forced this sin upon her, but he saw that this was clearly not the case. Justinian openly exulted in his unkingly triumph. Joannina, remaining unmarried, took the penitent’s veil, for the shame that she had brought upon herself and her parents.
Meanwhile Belisarius had organized his small army, to which Bloody John joined his own – now reduced to a thousand light cavalry. They sailed from Otranto to the relief of Rossano, but a hurricane scattered the fleet, sinking some vessels. The remainder reassembled at Cotrone, some days later, and once more steered for Rossano, past which they had been blown. But by this time King Teudel was there, ready to oppose the landing. On the narrow beach his life-guards were lined up in close and embattled order, with archers well posted: it would have been suicidal to attempt a disembarkation. Nor were there any other landing-places on that dangerous coast. With grief in his heart Belisarius drew away again to Cotrone and left the garrison to choose between death and surrender. A hundred of his brave Thracians were among them.