Theodoric

TWELVE

Approaching the coast of south-east Macedonia, Timothy rode through an enchanted landscape: meadows thick with poppies, interspersed with noble stands of beech and oak, their silence broken only by the chatter of squirrels and the call of grouse, while inland rose pine-clad mountains streaked by waterfalls. Occasionally, a deer or boar would dash across the path ahead, and, once, he glimpsed high above him an imperial eagle, moving through the air with majestic flaps of its great wings. There had been a magic moment during his journey from Epirus, when his attention had been caught by a strange-shaped white cloud far to the south; on its remaining immobile, he had realized that in fact it was the snow-capped peak of Mount Olympus.

Skirting the battlefield of Philippi where, five centuries before, Antony and Octavian had smashed the legions of Brutus and Cassius, Caesar’s murderers, he headed south and in a few miles picked up the Via Egnatia, the mighty Roman highway linking Constantinople to Epidamnus on the Adriatic. Turning to his left, westward, he cantered along the verge of the paved road, running parallel to the Aegean, Homer’s ‘wine-dark sea’. Breezes from the offshore isle of Thasos carried a tang of cypresses and olive trees — the very smell of Greece.

Several paces behind his mount, connected to Timothy’s hand by a lead-rope, ran a beautiful dapple-grey horse, his muscles rippling like silk beneath the glossy coat. This was no ordinary steed. An enormous stallion, a cross between a Hun great horse and a chunky Parthian (the type beloved of Roman stablemasters), and a full twenty hands in height, he was the biggest horse that Timothy had ever known. He had bought him for a song from a Gothic horse-coper who had purchased him as a reject from the Roman cavalry. For, although beautiful, Sleipnir — as his Gothic owner had named him after Odin’s terrible eight-legged steed — was evil. No one had succeeded in riding him; of those who tried, a legacy of smashed limbs and broken backs bespoke their failure.

No one, that is, until Timothy. For Timothy, the breaking of horses had, from an early age, been a passion, an obsession almost. The method favoured by most Roman riding-masters — bending an animal to one’s will by harsh treatment — he despised. By a system based on rewarding and praising co-operation, balanced by withholding attention in response to bad manners or aggression, he had never, thus far, failed with any horse. Sleipnir had proved his severest test; but a challenge was something Timothy relished, and with patience and consistency he had eventually won the creature over. But woe betide anyone else foolhardy enough to try to mount him.

An hour’s easy ride from where he’d joined the Via Egnatia brought Timothy to the edge of Strabo’s camp outside the Macedonian town of Stabula Diomedis. Having failed to forge an alliance with Zeno advantageous to himself, Strabo had launched a full-scale assault on Constantinople. Repulsed (predictably), he had resolved to switch his attack westward and was en route to invade Epirus, hoping to co-opt Amal support, as Theoderic’s new base at Epidamnus was in that very province.

Timothy’s entry into the camp made an immediate impression. Unlike their Visigothic cousins, the Ostrogoths had long been familiar with the use of horses, first as steppe-dwelling herdsmen, then as allies of Attila, when their cavalry had severely tested, though not broken, the Visigoths’ shield-wall at the epic battle of the Catalaunian Fields. Though only the wealthy could afford them, all Ostrogoths shared an appreciation of horses. An animal of Sleipnir’s appearance inevitably caused a huge buzz of interest, and he was soon the focus of an admiring, and growing, throng.

A lane parted in the mass of warriors and Strabo, yellow hair swinging about his shoulders, strode up to see what the excitement was about. He gazed at the dappled stallion with ill-disguised cupidity. ‘We know you,’ he declared, turning to Timothy. ‘You’re the one who defeated our champion in single combat at the Monastery of St Elizabeth.’ He fixed the other with a squinting stare. ‘But the fight was fair; we bear you no ill-will. What brings you to the camp of Theoderic of Thrace?’

Dismounting, Timothy knelt and said, ‘I come, Sire, with a gift from the king of the Amal. He hopes you will accept this horse as a token of the amity that now exists between our peoples. His name is Sleipnir, and he is without peer among his kind.’

‘Sleipnir? A strange name for a strange beast.’

‘A mount fit for a god, Sire. Or a king. Let me demonstrate how perfectly he responds to a rider’s will. The lightest touch of heel or bridle, the merest hint of pressure by the knee is all the guidance he requires.’

Oddly enhanced by the squint, the glint of avarice in Strabo’s eyes was plain to see. ‘Show me, then.’

Timothy vaulted nimbly onto the back of Sleipnir, whose tack was already in situ. Without once touching saddle-horn or bridle, he proceeded to put the stallion through his paces — the old, old moves going back to Xenophon, which all war-horses must learn if they were to be of any use to a rider whose hands were occupied with shield and lance. With consummate grace and apparent ease, Sleipnir performed a series of evolutions: the high trot on the spot; rising up with hocks bent and forelegs pawing the air; and, hardest of all, static leaps, a feat accomplished by only the very best of mounts. Alighting, Timothy bowed to Strabo and extended a hand towards the horse. ‘Your turn, Sire.’

Matching the Isaurian’s agility, the king sprang onto the saddle — whereupon the full wickedness of Sleipnir’s nature manifested itself. Feeling the weight of a stranger on his back, the stallion, eyes rolling, ears laid back, immediately began to rear and plunge, obliging Strabo to hang on grimly to the two front saddle-horns. A gasp of horror arose from the scattering onlookers as Sleipnir bounded in the air, then landed with a jarring thud that sent Strabo flying from the saddle, to crash onto a rack of spears outside a tent. Several blades drove through the king’s back, their bloody points emerging from his chest. Strabo gave a choking cry, a fount of blood gushed from his mouth, and he lolled lifeless, suspended from the spears.

Before the Goths could react, Timothy had mounted Sleipnir and was galloping from the camp. A spear whistled past his head; a warrior who tried to bar the way went down, skull stove in by an iron-shod hoof. Then they were clear and speeding eastward along the Via Egnatia, at a pace no other steed could hope to emulate. The plot — intended by Theoderic and Timothy only to humiliate Strabo before his followers, and thus hopefully reduce his standing — had succeeded beyond their wildest imaginings.

The results of Strabo’s accidental death were immediate and far-reaching. Theoderic had proved himself stronger than his rival. Therefore (according to the Gothic mind) he was worthy to be the leader of Strabo’s followers. Thus the hegemony of all the Ostrogoths fell to Theoderic, who thus became, almost at a stroke, a major potential threat to Zeno. Unable now to play off one Gothic bloc against another, the Eastern emperor sought to win over Theoderic by a series of gestures. He connived in the murder of Strabo’s son Rekitach, thus eliminating the only serious challenge to Theoderic’s supremacy; he granted the Amal Goths land in Dacia Ripensis* and Moesia Secunda; he appointed Theoderic Magister Militum praesentalis, the highest post in the Roman army; and he designated him (along with one Venantius) consul† — an unheard-of honour for a barbarian. Through an unexpected turn of fortune’s wheel, it seemed that all Theoderic’s tribulations had been smoothed away, and his dream at last fulfilled.

* Roughly equivalent to north-east Serbia.

† For 484.