Justinian (38 page)

The Battle of Tadinae/Busta Gallorum, 1 July(?)
AD
552

The Kalends of July dawned grey and overcast. From his own position on the left wing of the Roman line, Narses surveyed the arrangement of his troops. All were dismounted, the right wing (Romans like his own command) under an experienced general, Valerian; in the centre, Lombard, Herul, and Gepid allies – stout warriors of Germanic stock. Before each wing was ranged a screen of archers – all expert marksmen, armed with powerful recurved bows of laminated wood, horn, and sinew.

Narses had never shared the prevailing Roman bias which favoured cavalry over infantry, believing that well-trained
pedites
were (as in Rome's glory days) superior to
equites
every time. The Ostrogoths on the other hand, from having in the past been mainly foot-soldiers, had gradually changed to fighting principally on horseback, perhaps in imitation of Belisarius' tactics, or perhaps reverting to an earlier tradition. Centuries before, migrating from northern Germania to the steppelands of the Euxine littoral, their way of life had changed to that of mounted herdsmen. As such, they had been absorbed into the Empire of the Huns, supplying Attila with formidable cavalry shock troops, which had almost turned the tide in his favour at the great Battle of the Catalaunian Plains.
*

Narses was satisfied that his position was a strong one. Numerically, his army was far superior to Totila's, and the ground was in his favour. The only potential weak spot was a narrow, steep-sided valley to the left of the Roman line, which the enemy would probably try to penetrate in order to turn Narses' flank. It must be securely blocked, and held – at all costs.

It was. The battle opened with a fierce assault by Gothic cavalry on the Romans guarding the ravine in an attempt to dislodge them. But the steep and broken nature of the terrain (unfavourable to horsemen) made it relatively easy for the defenders to beat off such attacks, which continued throughout the morning.

The sun, glimpsed at rare intervals through a screen of low clouds and drizzling rain, had passed its zenith when a huge force of mounted warriors, the main part of Totila's host, advanced to the middle of the plain,
leaving behind, near the Goths' encampment, a much smaller infantry contingent. A lone rider, magnificent in gilded armour, now cantered out before the Gothic host, and proceeded to put on a dazzling display of horsemanship, making his mount circle and caracole while tossing up and catching his javelin, then throwing it from side to side. The long golden locks escaping from beneath the rider's
Spangenhelm
, together with the splendour of his armour, identified him as none other than Totila.

A pall of dust on the horizon heralding the approach of the Gothic reinforcements, Totila rejoined his army to wild applause.

‘What now, Sir?' one of the staff officers grouped around Narses enquired of the general.

‘Thank God they used cavalry to try to clear the gully,' remarked Narses in heartfelt tones. ‘If they'd sent in infantry, we might not still be standing here. That leaves Totila with only one throw of the dice, poor devil. He'll be forced to use the same tactics he employed successfully at Faventia.'

‘A cavalry charge?'

‘Exactly. Only this time, it won't work. At Faventia, he took the Romans in the rear and by surprise. This time, we're ready for him. Best we advance the archers now, I think. Tell the
bucinatores
to give the signal, would you?'

As the trumpets boomed out, the archers moved forward ahead of the divisions on each flank, ready to provide enfilading fire.

The Gothic cavalry, now augmented by the reinforcements, began to move forward, gradually accelerating from a trot to a canter, finally to a full gallop. Down swept a forest of lances as the huge mass of horsemen thundered up the low incline bounding the limit of the plain, towards the Roman centre. Nothing, it appeared, could stop the centre from being swept away like chaff before the wind. Then an extraordinary thing happened. At the last moment, the seemingly irresistible Gothic charge stalled, the van milling about in confusion, confronted by a rock-steady frieze of spear-points presented by the Lombards, Heruls, and Gepids. The endless hours of training in repelling cavalry, which Narses had insisted on, now paid off handsomely. Faced with the terrifying sight of charging horsemen, a foot-soldier's insinct is to drop his spear and flee. But if he can learn to hold his nerve and, in concert with his fellows, stand his ground, he will find that horses (endowed with a far greater sense of self-preservation than men) will not press home a charge against sharp blades, no matter how much their riders urge them on. And so it proved.

Suddenly, the sky darkened as the archers on the flanks let fly. A storm
of arrows drilled into the bucking, rearing horsemen, causing carnage on a massive scale and increasing the confusion. Volley after volley took their bloody toll, until it became more than flesh and blood could stand. The Gothic cavalry broke and fled – ploughing through their own infantry in their haste to escape those deadly shafts. Now the Romans, mounting their temporarily abandoned steeds, galloped in pursuit, scything down the fleeing Goths in their thousands . . .

Busta Gallorum proved a great and conclusive Roman victory, especially when the corpse of Totila – conspicuous in its gilded armour – was found among the dead; ‘The Tomb of the Gauls' had become ‘The Tomb of the Goths'. The power of the Goths was broken, permanently. Though Teia (immediately chosen as the new king) and a few Gothic leaders continued to hold out for a little longer, they were eliminated one by one, the final battle of the war being fought at Mons Lactarius in October of the same year as Busta Gallorum. Thereafter, all that remained to be done was a little mopping-up. With all its leaders and most of its fighting men killed, the nation of the Ostrogoths had ceased forever to exist.

The ending of the Gothic War meant that a major part of Justinian's Grand Plan had been accomplished. With Africa, Italy and southern Spain (seized from the divided Visigoths in the year of Busta Gallorum in a lightning campaign waged by Liberius
*
– an enterprising Roman general of eighty-five) now reintegrated into the Imperium Romanum, the Roman Empire had regained more or less the same dimensions it possessed at the time of Julius Caesar, prior to his expedition against Gaul.

But the knowledge brought little satisfaction to Justinian, to whom the ‘triumph' was as dust and ashes in the mouth. Narses' reports were starkly honest. Alongside total victory in Italy must be weighed the cost: destruction of the country's infrastructure and economy along with countless towns and villages; displacement of people on a massive scale; huge casualty figures for both soldiers and civilians; venerable institutions like the Senate swept away (taken hostage, most senators had died in acts of retribution in the final bitter stages of the war); and, by no means least, the annihilation of a worthy enemy who might have played a valued part in the building of a new nation. Even if, by some miracle, the recovery of
the West had been achieved with little bloodshed, any joy it might have afforded would have eluded the now aged emperor. For without Theodora to share it with, life had lost all savour.

The Roman Empire at the death of Justinian,
AD
565

But life, nevertheless, had to go on. There was still an Empire to run (one vastly bigger than when he had first assumed the purple), still the thorny issue of religious unity to be resolved, and in Italy – apart from the immense and daunting task of reconstruction – slaves to be returned to their masters and
coloni
to be evicted from the estates they had commandeered from landowners. With iron in his soul, ‘the Sleepless One' proceeded to immerse himself in the thousand tasks involved in the administration of his realm, in an attempt to fill the emptiness of his existence.

*
Or nephew, according to Gibbon.

*
Sofia.

**
The remains of these impressive works can still be seen. Their deterrent effect is questionable – as Germanus discovered to his cost.

*
In April 552.

*
Rimini and Perugia.

**
i.e facing Totila; it would of course be to the Romans' left. (See Plan.)

*
See my
Attila
.

*
The same Liberius who, nearly sixty years earlier, had masterminded the division of land in Italy between the Romans and Theoderic's Ostrogoths – an immensely challenging and delicate task.

Now this country of silk lies beyond the remotest of the Indies, and . . . is
called Tzinitza [China]

Cosmas Indicopleustes,
*
Christian Topography
, c. 540

In the year that witnessed the destruction of the Ostrogoths at Busta Gallorum and Mons Lactarius, two Nestorian monks from Persia who had sojourned in China sought an audience with Justinian.

‘The monks are here, Serenity,' a
silentiarius
announced to the emperor, seated as usual at his desk in his
triclinium
or private study. Here, rather than in rooms of state or the chambers of the Council, the administration of the Empire was increasingly carried out, by the ‘many-eyed' emperor – ‘the Sleepless One' himself – working alone at night till dawn.

‘Ah, Paul,' murmured the emperor, looking up with a smile from the codex he was scanning, ‘a little bird tells me you're composing a poem – a description in hexameters of our Church of the Holy Wisdom.'

‘The bird speaks correctly, Serenity.'

‘Then I look forward to a private reading on completion of the work. You may admit our visitors.'

‘Fathers Hieronymous and Antony,' announced the usher and withdrew, flushing with pleasure at the emperor's recognition of his opus.

Two black-robed figures entered the
tablinum
and bowed. ‘We much appreciate your granting us an interview, Serenity,' declared the foremost, a man of burly build with a large bald head, fleshy hooked nose and a pair of lively black eyes. ‘Father Hieronymus,' he went on, clapping a hand to his chest. ‘Father Antony.' And he indicated the other, a birdlike figure with a nervous smile.

‘But – I understood that you were Persians,' said Justinian, looking mildly puzzled. ‘These are Roman names.'

‘Our abbot requires us to take the names of Roman Fathers, in honour of the Founder of our Order – the great Nestorius,' explained Father Hieronymus.

‘I see. Well, Fathers, how may I help you? Or perhaps I should be asking
your
help. As Nestorians, you may be able to assist me in untying a doctrinal Gordian Knot, that is proving to be particularly, ah – knotty. It concerns my Edict regarding certain writings by three followers of Nestorius, which I'm attempting, with considerable difficulty, to get my subjects to accept; the Edict, not the writings, I should say.' And he regarded the pair invitingly.

‘Alas, Serenity, the purpose of our visit is not to do with matters spiritual, but rather concerns Mammon,' said Father Hieronymus. ‘If I were to ask you, Serenity, what was the Empire's most valuable luxury item, what would be your answer?'

‘Silk,' replied the emperor without hesitation. ‘It's required for robes of state for officials and high clergy, also for diplomatic gifts to foreign potentates. And of course it's highly prized by women of the upper class. The cost, however, is prohibitively high. Thanks to our control of the Straits of Bab-el-Mandeb leading into the Red Sea, we can get some silk from China, our shippers buying it from merchants based at Taprobane.
*
The trouble is, Persian traders are strongly entrenched there and usually manage to buy up all the silk before we can get our hands on any. Which leaves the overland route – the ‘Silk Road' – from China via Central Asia to Persia and the Mediterranean. Our
commerciarii
buy it from the Persians at scheduled frontier posts.'

‘Putting the Persians in a perfect position to extort monopoly prices,' observed Father Antony.

‘Exactly!' retorted Justinian with some heat.

‘So – wouldn't it be splendid if silk could be produced
within
the Roman Empire,' said Father Hieronymus.

‘It would indeed,' concurred Justinian, adding wryly, ‘We can all dream, I suppose.'

‘It need be no dream,' said Father Hieronymus in earnest tones.

‘Go on,' prompted Justinian, his interest quickened.

‘When Father Antony and I served in China as missionaries, based in the great city of Nanking,' went on the monk, ‘we were able to observe, among many other things, how silk was manufactured. Hatching from an egg, the caterpillar of the silkworm moth feeds on the leaves of the mulberry plant; then, when it has attained a certain size, it secretes around itself a cocoon of fine thread – silk, in other words. Inside the cocoon it prepares for metamorphosis – the change from grub to moth. Before this can happen, the grub is killed by steam or hot water. The silken filaments
from several cocoons are then unwound together, being spun into a silken thread. After which, once the thread is cleaned, the normal process of weaving and dyeing – as with cotton, wool, or linen – can take place.'