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| Belisarius and Procopius chat atop the Pincian Gate in Rome. Image created using hotpot.ai/art-generator |
In March of the year AD 538, the late Roman general, Belisarius, pulled off one of the most incredible feats in military history: he successfully defended the massive city of Rome—with its 12 miles of circuit walls—with a scant 5,000 soldiers, against a vast army of Goths that outnumbered his own some 15 or 20 to 1. Indeed, by the time the Gothic King Vitiges broke up the siege after twelve frustrating months, it had become unclear which side was the besieged and which was the besieger. Unable to prevent the Romans from bringing in supplies or leaving the city in force, Vitiges found himself bogged down with a stubborn fortified city in front of him, and far flung enemy cavalry units ravaging his supply lines behind him, threatening to cut him off from his base in Ravenna.
What did Belisarius do once it became clear that the Goths were abandoning their camps and moving out? Did he allow the reduced but still tremendous force of Goths to go in peace, counting himself blessed and fortunate that the city had withstood the prolonged siege against such heavy odds?
He did not.
Instead, he rode out with every available man and attacked the Gothic rear-guard.
I recorded Procopius's eye-witness account of the end of the siege in a previous post here.
Belisarius, Book III: Rome the Eternal, provides a dramatized description of this action with Belisarius's biscuit-eaters Longinus and Mundilas leading the charge. Mundilas is injured, while Longinus is killed despite amazing acts of valor. This much is recorded in Procopius's History of the Wars. I embellished the action in the novel.
Here is an excerpt from the novel, presenting a scene on the walls of Rome in the immediate aftermath of the Gothic withdrawal. In this scene, Belisarius has an opportunity to speak privately with his secretary, Procopius of Caesarea—the man who would go on to become the most important historian of the Justinianic period.
I had fun writing this scene. I hope you enjoy it!
End of Chapter XXXI...
Belisarius secured the gatehouse at the Milvian Bridge that he had been forced to cede when the Gothic host first arrived the previous March. With that act, the great siege of Rome came to an end. Belisarius entered the city to cheering throngs, many of whom had ventured out of the gates to watch the battle from the protection of the tree line. The ecstasy of the Romans was tempered only by the arrival of a cart bearing Mundilas and Longinus—the first gravely injured, the second slain. Meeting the bereaved men of Longinus, Belisarius offered his sincere sympathy, weeping along with them without shame.
Later, Belisarius stood alone atop the Pincian Gate, for once gazing into the city, not outward toward the Gothic camps now in ashes. As the celebration continued unabated well into the night, Belisarius insisted that the gates be manned and the guards be sober, lest the Goths sneak into the city via stratagem while its inhabitants were lulled into a drunken slumber. To drive home the point, Belisarius himself kept vigil all night on the walls.
“Has the great wooden horse arrived yet, O Aeneas?” Procopius laughed. He made his way slowly and carefully up the stone steps, his tottering gait threatening to cast him fifty feet down.
“No sign of it,” Belisarius smiled, offering his secretary a strong hand up. “If you would warn me against it, though, be mindful of the fate of Laocöon. How are you at wrestling with snakes?”
“I would fare no better than the ill-fated Trojan priest, I suppose,” Procopius sighed. “I fear serpents above all things. Here, I have brought you a drink—wine mixed with honey, and a good vintage, too.”
“Though I am on duty, I accept. From any hand but yours I might demur, old friend,” Belisarius replied, recalling the recent attempt to drug the gate guards using spiked wine.
The two stood in silence as Belisarius sipped.
“Was it worth it?” Procopius intoned quietly, casting his bleary gaze over a large group of revelers carousing in the plaza below. “Was recovering this city worth the lives of Longinus and Principius and Tarmutus?”
“Don’t forget about Chorsamantis, Bochas and Cutilas,” Belisarius added. Poor Cutilas had lingered a month after suffering his gruesome head wound, only to perish of fever despite the best efforts of Theoctistus. “May Christ have mercy on their souls.” He made the sign of the cross on his forehead.
“Maxentius, Petronius and Valentine, too,” continued Procopius. “And so many other good men.”
“And Constantinus,” Belisarius added gloomily. “His unhealthy lust for plunder killed him as surely as any Gothic spear. But my answer is yes. This is the Eternal City of Rome, the birthplace of the Empire and the rampart of civilization. Had more good men been willing to give their lives to defend it in past ages, it would never have fallen under the sway of the barbarians to begin with.”
“But if too many good men die, who...who...but wicked men and weaklings will remain to defend Rome?” Procopius asked with a tipsy stammer.
“God will raise up others as He raised up this generation. That is why what you are doing is of such great import.”
“My letters to the praetorian prefect about the grain supply are pointless—irrelevant two weeks after they are written,” Procopius lamented.
“Not your letters, friend. Your history.”
“That disorganized pile of waste paper?” Procopius replied, the wine loosening his tongue. “Alas, your words earlier today—was it really today? It feels like weeks ago—your words have put a worry into my heart. What will the ending be? Will our astounding run of blessed good fortune continue? Or will some great disaster turn the tale into an awful tragedy? Or worse, will a sequence of little disasters grind us down into abject failure. You know, when my mood turns this way, I have considered destroying all my notes and abandoning the work completely.”
Click here for more information. “Am I truly speaking with the same man who said that he was writing a history to be read for a thousand years?” Belisarius replied in amazement. “Has our victory in the siege somehow drained your cask of optimism?”
“Even victories, it seems, come with a cost in noble lives lost that can never be replaced,” Procopius sighed. “Writing about the death of yet another hearty soul like Longinus makes me never want to write again.”
“That is not well at all,” Belisarius chided, turning deadly serious. “You must persevere and continue to write without flinching and without despair, no matter what outcome God has ordained for our campaign. For if those men died in this cause, their deaths will not be in vain if their names are recorded for posterity so that those who read in the far distant future, hundreds or thousands of years from now, may remember and admire their acts.”
“Of course, you are right,” Procopius grimaced, focusing his eyes on a bonfire burning outside the city. “The purpose of history is to give the future examples of valor to imitate and perfidy to despise. And certainly, the acts of Principius and Longinus did just that.”
“So then you will continue?” Belisarius asked, exhaling a vaporous cloud into the chilly night air.
“Yes, I will continue, Magister,” Procopius replied pensively. “Though I will pray hard that my history doesn’t devolve into a dreary chronicle of disasters and obituaries.”
“Indeed,” Belisarius nodded. “I will do my very best to make sure that you are well supplied with noble deeds and heroic victories to record.”
Procopius smiled a little sadly, but remained silent. Would that you had the power to ensure that, O Magister.
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