Theodoric

NINE

Striding over the flower-spangled meadows of the Oenus* valley, Severinus wondered if the detachment — from the last Roman garrison that Castra Batava was ever likely to see — had made it back from Italy. He had warned them not to go.

For more than sixty years, Noricum† had witnessed the barbarian tides roll past it to the north and south — and had been miraculously preserved on account of its being a rustic backwater, off the main routes into Italy and Gaul. But lately things had changed. Raids by Alamanni, Heruls and the northern branch of the Ostrogoths led by Valamir had year by year become more savage and destructive. From experience gained in Britain he, Severinus, had shown the Noricans the best way to resist. This was to retreat to castella — fortified settlements (contemptuously called fliehburgen by the German marauders) — garrisoned with citizen-militia stiffened by the remnants of Roman units which, so recently as the Attila campaign, had amounted to a considerable military presence.

Seating himself on a boulder for a breather (though still hale and active, he was eighty, Severinus reminded himself), he filled his lungs with the pure mountain air. Around him stretched a vista of majestic peaks, lakes and limpid streams — the most beautiful land he had known in his travels to every corner of the Roman Empire: Britannia with its mists and rain, the burning sands of Africa and Egypt, the forests of the northern frontier. His mind drifted back to his early childhood in Britannia, where his father had been a primicerius* in the great military base at Eboracum.†

He was born in the final year of the reign of the great Theodosius, when, for the last time, Rome had been a single empire and was still the mightiest power in the world. When the self-styled ‘emperor’, Constantine III, had taken the field army of Britannia with him from the island in a doomed bid for the purple, little Severinus had accompanied his family with the legions, to Gaul. But, in the meantime, following the death of Theodosius and the ‘splitting of the Eagle’ (as the soldiers had termed the final division of the Empire into East and West), catastrophe had struck. On the last day of the year 406, a vast barbarian confederacy of Vandals, Sueves and Alans had crossed the frozen Rhine; they later swept through Gaul and into Spain.

In the chaos of Gaul, his father had been killed fighting the Vandals, his family had become dispersed and, aged twelve, Severinus had found himself a homeless refugee. Sustaining himself by begging and stealing, he had made his way to Aremorica‡ in north-west Gaul, an enclave run by the Bagaudae. These were ‘outlaws’ (as the state termed them), refugees from oppressive landlords and the crushing demands of the Roman tax machine, who had banded together to form their own self-governing communities, with strict laws and People’s Courts. Severinus had lived among these tough and independent-minded folk for several years, absorbing many useful skills, from woodcraft to healing.

When quasi-stability was restored in Gaul by the great general and co-emperor Constantius, Severinus had made his way south in stages to Italy, earning a living by practising the medical skills he had learnt among the Bagaudae. So much in demand did his craft become in Rome that he had been able to live in enough comfort and security to attend classes in law and philosophy at the university. Crossing to Roman Africa, he had continued his studies at the University of Carthage, and conversed with the famous scholar Augustine, bishop of Hippo. When the Vandals crossed the Pillars of Hercules* and seized the diocese, he had moved to the Eastern Empire, first to Egypt, where he had studied medicine at Alexandria — Galen’s alma mater — then to Constantinople, at whose university he had attended lectures in philosophy and rhetoric.

And so, in an unplanned Odyssey as a wandering scholar-cum-healer, he had completed the whole vast circuit of both empires, returning to Britannia (now abandoned to its own defences) as part of Germanus’ second mission to combat the influence of the Pelagian heretics. Here, he had met and befriended Ambrosius Aurelianus, son of a Roman senator and resistance leader against the inroads of the Saxons. After helping Aurelianus to organize a system of self-defence among the island’s cities, he had returned to imperial soil. Finally, these fifteen years past, he had made his home in Noricum where, to his amusement, he had become venerated as a ‘holy man’ and sage.

When at last the barbarians came, Severinus had slipped naturally into the role of leader, organizing the defences of Castra Batava, Lauriacum† and a dozen other places. Apart from an intermittent trickle of pay for the few surviving Roman units, no help from the central government had been forthcoming. When that, too, ceased, some Roman soldiers based at Castra Batava had volunteered to make the journey to Ravenna and bring back the funds themselves. Severinus had tried to dissuade them; the way was long and arduous, beset with danger. Moreover, the political situation in Italy was in a state of melt-down. The latest wearer of the diadem and purple, one Julius Nepos, having murdered the previous incumbent, Glycerius, and proclaimed himself emperor, was in conflict with the commanders of the Army of Italy. (Severinus had actually met one of them, Odovacar, of the old Scirian royal line. En route to Italy to seek his fortune, Odovacar had sought out the famous holy man of Noricum. Severinus remembered being impressed by the big German’s intelligence and self-confidence, predicting Odovacar would go far.) Despite Severinus’ warnings, the Batavan soldiers, brave and stubborn, had insisted on going. Two months having passed since their departure, the old man was now making his way to Castra Batava, to find out if they had returned.

‘Nearly home, lads!’ At the rear of the straggling line of soldiers and pack-mules laden with coin, the circitor* pointed ahead to a dramatic gash in the saw-toothed crest of the Alpes Carnicae.† The men, travel-stained and weary, raised a ragged cheer and quickened their pace. A few hours later they reached the summit of the pass and began the descent into Noricum.

They had found Ravenna, the imperial capital and terminus of the outward journey, in a state of confusion, with harassed heads of state departments rushing about like so many headless chickens. No one seemed to know who was in charge of anything; the latest emperor, Julius Nepos, had apparently quarrelled with his top general, Orestes, and sailed for Dalmatia — abandoning the Roman West and creating, in effect, an interregnum. After endless requests, the Batavans were eventually granted an audience with the two chief financial ministers, the Comes Rei Privatae and Comes Sacrarum Largitionum — the Counts of the Privy and Public Purses respectively.

‘Until I get the emperor’s permission,’ the Privy Purse, a thin, intense man, had bleated, ‘I cannot issue funds. And as the emperor is — not forthcoming, shall we say, my hands are tied, completely tied.’ The Public Purse, a plump, jolly individual clearly sympathetic concerning their predicament, had proved more accommodating. ‘I think we can, ah, “liberate” a small amount from the pay chest of the Army of Italy,’ he said with a conspiratorial wink. ‘After all, they’re federates — barbarians, not Romans like yourselves. Anyway, everything’s going to hell in a handcart just now; I doubt if I’ll ever be called to account. Best assume, though, that this’ll be your final pay instalment.’

Now, relaxed and carefree to be nearing journey’s end, the Batavan soldiers abandoned their usual caution. Helmets and heavy hauberks loaded on the pack-mules, they made their way beside the sparkling Oenus, eagerly anticipating the welcome that awaited them in Castra Batava, which was expected soon to come into view.

They followed the riverside path into a wood. Suddenly, spears thrusting, axes hacking, armed Alamanni raiders burst from the trees and fell on them. Unarmoured, taken by surprise, the Romans could put up only token resistance. In seconds it was all over; the soldiers’ lifeless bodies were tumbled into the stream, and the killers departed, delighted with their spoils.

When Severinus reached the Oenus and observed the threads of scarlet in the current, he had a premonition of disaster — soon to be confirmed, as the first body bobbed in sight. Tears flowing down his face, the old man hastened to break the news to the Batavans.

* River Inn.

† West Roman province, roughly corresponding to southern Austria — Sound of Music country.

* A non-commissioned rank roughly corresponding to sergeant-major.

† York.

† Brittany.

* The Straits of Gibraltar.

† Passau; Lorsch.

* A non-commissioned rank roughly equal to corporal.

† The Carnatic Alps.