Triumph by Jack Ludlow Page A

commanderswere not idle; with the flat blades of their swords, added to hoarse and repeated shouting, they were busy ensuring that the cavalry formed up behind the moat to repulse their enemies. Only when a modicum of order was restored did it become obvious why they were being gifted the time. Not all of the Isaurians had broken; out in the fields stood two tight squares of infantry who between them had broken up the Goth pursuit.
    Led by Principius and Tarmutus, this diminished force was seeking to do that which should have fallen to the whole. That they could not hold was obvious but before he could give them support Flavius had to mount a defence with his back to the walls of the now closed city, any pleas to the citizens to open the gates denied.
    ‘Is there anything more treacherous than a Roman, father?’
    ‘Remember we are Romans, Photius, despite what those swine call us.’
    Some order was emerging, infantry being pushed forward to line the inner side of the moat while others were moving to destroy the wooden causeway by which the army had advanced and now retreated. This was stopped by Flavius, who gave permission to Ennes that he should try to rescue those who could be saved, especially his brother, Tarmutus.
    Leading three hundred of the heavily armoured bucellarii , Ennes thundered over those timbers and initiated a full charge so that their sheer weight would break the Goth encirclement. Their comrades watched as they crashed through the lighter Goth cavalry, to create an avenue by which the remaining Isaurians, and there were now few, could flee, that followed by a fighting retreat.
    Ennes personally carried out his brother over his saddle. Principius suffered harsher treatment; being dead, he was dragged back over the moat and once the men who had effected the rescue were safe Flavius ordered the causeway to be hacked down, watching as his triumphantenemy worked to get his forces into the proper formation to finish off what was now a trapped enemy.
    ‘Are we to die here?’ Photius asked, with a tremor in his voice.
    ‘If the citizens of Rome will not open the gates all we can do is cost the Goths dear. Now it is time to pray and comport your soul.’
    How was it possible that so many thousands of men could be silent; if, like their general, they were praying there was no evidence, while over their heads the residents of the city also seemed to come to a collective holding of breath in anticipation of what was to come, a bloody massacre. Or was it in contemplation of the revenge Witigis would take upon their treacherous city?
    Many were later to question the power of prayer, for no attack came; the Goths began to fall back, splitting up to return to their camps, which did nothing to break the silence, even when the fields on the eastern side of the moat were clear of everything but the dead and dying. Then from behind the defeated army came the sound of creaking as the great gates were opened.
    That his troops began to cheer sickened Flavius; he had chanced everything to win a decisive victory and he had been beaten and then betrayed. It was a chastened general, his head hanging low, who rode back into the city.
    ‘Why did they not attack, Father?’
    ‘If you can communicate with God, Photius, ask him, for I have no answer. Ride to Valentinus and inform him of what has occurred. Whatever the state of his action he is to retire at once.’
    ‘And the occupants of the city?’
    ‘I cannot do to them what Witigis would have done, Photius.’ The voice lost its weary quality and became a hiss. ‘Much as it would give me pleasure to do so. Now go, time is pressing.’
     
    On the Plains of Nero the orders issued by Flavius had been studiously obeyed. Valentinus had stood off and used controlled archery to pin the Goths in front of their camp but made no attempt to overcome them. If the men who led the Roman levies had been content to stay where they had been deployed all would have been well but, sure of