Flame of the West by David Pilling

gritted teeth, “what if the others fail to support our attack? We would be massacred.”
       “Better dead than disgraced. You have no choice, Coel. Stop dithering. Advance.”
       I drew Caledfwlch and kissed the cold steel. It was blasphemous, but I was convinced my grandsire’s soul resided inside the blade: neither Heaven or Hell could possibly contain such a fierce spirit.
       Shaking off my fears and indecision, I gave the order to advance. My cavalry re-formed on the highway and moved forward at a slow trot, holding their torches aloft. 
       The city was still some five or six miles distant. As we advanced, I kept my eyes fixed on the enemy camp. There were lights moving down there, and at first I feared the entire Gothic host was marching out to engage us.
       If so, I resolved to withdraw. Personal honour was all very fine, but I preferred to live with disgrace rather than the guilt of leading hundreds of men to their deaths.
       Hope flared inside me as I saw the lights disperse and scatter away from Rimini in all directions. The sound of distant war-horns reached my ears, booming across the countryside.
       I gripped Procopius’ arm. “Belisarius,” I said hoarsely, “and listen, there, to the east…Hildiger, it must be! ”
       Our forces were converging on Rimini, exactly as planned. I urged my men on at the canter, all my doubts and fears blown away.
       War-delight coursed through me, the strange excitement that seizes men on the verge of battle, turning cowards into heroes. When the fighting is over, the feeling ebbs, and they are left wondering at their own savage excesses.
       There was no battle. The Goths had panicked at the sight of our fires, as Belisarius predicted they would, and immediately raised the siege. Thousands streamed north, riding for Ravenna as fast as their horses could carry them, while the infantry were left to shift for themselves.
       I rode into the deserted encampment, to find the forces of Belisarius and Hildiger already present in the city. The citizens had thrown open their gates to admit our troops, and the night sky echoed to the thunder of church bells.
       John the Sanguinary had remained inside Rimini until he was certain the Goths were retreating, and then unleashed his cavalry to plunder their baggage train. He took prisoners from among the wounded and the stragglers, and made a present of them to Belisarius, hoping to soothe the general’s wrath at his treachery.
       Belisarius was not the sort to be won over by such crude bribes, but he let John go unpunished. Instead, while his officers were still distracted by the celebrations, Belisarius quietly dismissed him, and let him depart from Rimini with a small following.
       Whether he did this for political reasons, or to avoid casting a shadow over the joy of his easy victory, I cannot be certain. There were those who grumbled at it, and looked askance at the gener al, wondering if he was losing his grip on affairs.
       Narses had not marched with any part of the army, claiming that he was quite useless in war, and would only hinder the cause. The morning after the relief of Rimini, he arrived at the gates carried in a litter and escorted by eighteen of his doryphori .
       “So this is war,” he piped when I greeted him at the Arch of Augustus, “it seems a rather bloodless affair. I have seen more casualties in the Hippodrome.”
       He sounded disappointed, and fanned himself with a fly-whisk. “A foully hot day,” he said, stifling a yawn, “I long for a cool bath and a massage. Where is our conquering general?”
   “In the fortress, lord,” I replied, “where he awaits your arrival.”
   “Another council of war? How trying. No sooner do we win one battle, then we must start planning the next. I dislike being made to work.”
       His b ored manner was an illusion. All the while his agile mind was churning out schemes to foil Belisarius and discredit him in