Theodoric

FIFTEEN

In his dream, Theoderic saw the ancestors of his people, the Gothones, in countless galleys crossing the Mare Suevicum* from Scandia — a cold land of fiords, forests and tall mountains — to Germania. There, under a great leader, Filimer, they began the long, long journey that ended only when they reached the northern shores of the Pontus Euxinus.† In two great clans, the Balthi, and the Amali of divine descent, they travelled with their herds and wagons, between the valleys of the Viadrus and the Vistula, across a mighty watershed, and so to the great southward-draining rivers, the Pyretus, the Tyras, the Borysthenes and the Tanais,‡ that led them to the Euxine.

That had been a time of gods and heroes, long ages before their kinsman, the missionary Ulfilas, persuaded the Gothones to adopt the faith of gentle Christos, a ‘king’ who sacrificed himself not only for his people (who rejected him), but for all mankind. Folk then believed in Odin the mighty, in Balder the good and gentle, and in evil Loki who brought about the death of Balder, and so hastened the coming of Ragnarok, the dreadful day when gods and evil beings shall destroy each other, and when Yggdrasil, the Tree of Life and Fate, shall be consumed by fire along with Earth itself. In those far-off days, a hero was the only man who mattered, brave deeds alone worthy of recounting, and a king’s self-sacrifice for his people the noblest act a leader could perform. And then. .

And then had come the Huns, thought Theoderic, awaking. Like a storm of angry locusts, the Hunnensturm had burst upon them from the east. True nomads, unlike the farming Goths, the Scythian* horse-archers — squat, powerfully built men with yellow skins and flat Oriental faces — had conquered or driven out all who stood in their path. The Balthi, who later became the Visigoths, had sought refuge within the Roman Empire; the Amal had stayed, becoming subjects of the Asiatic horde. In a heroic gesture, redolent of the ancient tradition of kingly sacrifice, Ermanaric, the Amal king, had taken his own life, hoping thus to placate the old gods, who might then help his people prevail against their oppressors. If so, the hope was vain, and the Amal — as the nation of the Ostrogoths — were destined to become the ally of Attila in his campaign against West Rome. Following the Hun king’s death (which occurred the year before his own birth, Theoderic recalled) and the disintegration of his empire, the Amal had remained for a time in Pannonia, the territory allotted to them by their Hun masters. And the rest, thought the Amal king, is history — my own and theirs, interwined.

His dream had been extraordinarily vivid and was slow to fade; Theoderic experienced an unaccountable, sharp longing for the homeland of his ancestors — those icy mountains, fiords and forests he had seen in his sleeping thoughts: a fitting stage for mighty deeds of valour, from where fallen heroes were translated to Valhalla. But perhaps such feelings were nothing more than childish nostalgia. Could the things his forebears had seen and felt really be transferred across the generations to himself? Anyway, was not Italy, sunny, rich and fertile, a more appealing vision? Of course it was, Theoderic told himself sternly, banishing northern fantasies to a dark corner of his mind. This was the real, the Roman world, where a man’s status was measured in wealth and property, a world which had no place for gods or heroes.

He shaved (a Roman custom he refused to abandon), dressed and, munching a hunk of bread dipped in wine, left the house in Novae he had commandeered. Resentful Romans making way for the tall German, Theoderic strode through well-paved streets to the Amal camp outside the city walls. Here, preparations were under way against the day of departure for the great expedition. Wagons, gear and weapons were being furbished, carts were bringing in the harvest (Theoderic had promised Zeno not to live off the land while travelling within the empire — a promise which, because of the residual affection and respect he harboured towards the old fox, he knew he would keep) — a scene replicated countless times throughout all lands assigned to the Amal in Moesia Secunda and Dacia Ripensis.

Suddenly, a huge weight of depression seemed to settle on the king’s shoulders. He must say goodbye to the old freebooting past that had occupied his youth and young manhood — a colourful past of skirmishes and raids, when pitting his wits against Zeno and Strabo had made life seem at times like an exciting game. Granted, a life not lacking in hardship and privation, but with an edge and zest which would surely be lacking in the years that stretched ahead. Middle age beckoned, and with it the massive responsibility of getting his people to Italy: a prospect full of toil and tribulation, with each day presenting a remorseless tally of problems to be solved, grievances assuaged, and plans formulated. Even when they reached journey’s end, there was Odovacar to be dealt with. The bold Scirian, who had risen to be king of Italy through cunning and resolve, was hardly the man to surrender his realm meekly to another. In a trial of strength between them, could Theoderic be sure the Ostrogoths would prevail? He could give no guarantee, he admitted. Perhaps the two barbarian peoples would end up destroying each other? Which of course might be the result that Zeno had planned all along — a necessary prelude to bringing back Italy within the imperial fold.

He longed for Timothy, the steadfast and resourceful friend who always knew ways to lighten his blackest moods. But Timothy had gone to Olbia on the Euxine, hopefully to bring back one Callisthenes, a famous merchant with a trading empire throughout Scythia, who should be able to provide expert advice regarding provisioning and transport for the epic trek.

Looking up, Theoderic felt his heart sink. Bounding towards him was young Frederick, the son of the Rugian king whom Odovacar had captured and murdered, after annihilating many of his people. Theoderic sighed; like all relations between the empire and Germanic peoples, the Rugian Question was complex, with far-reaching repercussions. He reminded himself of the facts. To counter Odovacar’s threat to support Illus in Isauria, Zeno had enlisted the Rugians — whose territory adjoined Noricum — to block any force the Scirian king might send eastwards. Odovacar’s response had been swift and brutal; descending in strength on the Rugian kingdom, he had wreaked devastation and slaughter on such a scale as to destroy it utterly. Frederick, however, had escaped, and with a band of pro-Ostrogothic followers had managed to join up with Theoderic in Moesia, where he had offered his services in the inevitable campaign to wrest Italy from Odovacar.

Theoderic liked the young Rugian, with his open friendly manner and boyish enthusiasm; but at this moment, sunk as he was in gloomy introspection, hearty Frederick was the last person he wished to encounter. Forcing a smile, he greeted the prince with a polite, if unenthusiastic, ‘Good morning.’

‘And the same to you, Sire,’ boomed the young man. He glanced about him at the busy scene with an approving eye. ‘Looks as if we’ll soon be ready to begin the march.’

‘Just as soon as the harvest’s in,’ agreed the king. ‘We need to break the back of the journey before the onset of winter.’ Now that Frederick was here, Theoderic decided he might as well make use of him by picking his brains as to the route. In his flight from Odovacar, the young Rugian must have covered virtually the same ground that the expedition would be following for the first half of the journey.

‘Nothing to worry about, Sire, until we reach the Ulca,’* replied the Rugian in response to Theoderic’s query about possible hazards. ‘That’s the river forming the boundary between the Empire and Pannonia.’

‘Pannonia, the Amals’ old homeland,’ observed Theoderic. ‘But that was many years ago. We abandoned it to become. . “guests”, let us say, of the emperor.’

‘“Guests” — I like it,’ chuckled Frederick. ‘Well, Pannonia’s since been taken over by the Gepids, a brutish bunch allied to Odovacar. Their orders were to wipe out me and my Rugians following our escape from the attentions of the last-named gentleman. There not being many of us, we managed to detour round them undetected. No way can you hope to do the same, unfortunately, Sire. But my guess is you won’t have any trouble; you’ll only be passing through their territory, after all. They’d be mad to pick a fight with so formidable a nation as the Ostrogoths.’

‘Let us hope you’re right.’

* The Baltic Sea.

† The Black Sea.

‡ The Oder, Vistula, Pruth, Dniester, Dnieper and Don.

* Scythia: an imprecise term, roughly equivalent to the steppes of Central Asia.

* River Vuka. The town of Vukovar has become familiar from the 1990s’ Balkan conflict. On 18 November 1991, it fell to the Serbs after enduring a terrible siege.