Theodoric

SEVENTEEN

Spotting Theoderic, who had ridden out to scout their position, the Gepids broke into a chorus of derisive catcalls. Contrary to Frederick’s optimistic prediction, it was obvious that the Gepids were not putting on a show of bravado, but were determined to deny passage to the Ostrogoths. The king’s heart sank. The Gepids were entrenched in force behind a system of barricades surmounting the steep western bank of the Ulca, below which the river flowed sluggishly, more marsh than stream, its course delineated by a series of pools and reed-beds — the worst possible approach from which to mount an assault. Half concealed as they were behind their defences, it was hard to estimate the Gepids’ strength, but Theoderic thought they must number many thousands of hostile warriors. It was going to be extremely difficult to dislodge them from such a strong position. But unless they were removed the consequences for the Ostrogoths would be serious. With food supplies virtually exhausted, any delay would spell starvation.

What on earth had caused the Gepids to get fired up? Theoderic wondered, as he cantered back to the encampment through pasture overlooked by vineyards. To put on such a show of force, they must consider the Ostrogoths a threat — which made no sense at all. By now, all the world must know that the Ostrogoths’ objective was Italy and not Pannonia; armed confrontation must inevitably result in a bloody battle with enormous casualties. Why would the Gepids risk that, when all they had to do was wait until the Ostrogoths had passed beyond their territory?

*

On reaching the Amal camp, Theoderic was accosted by a concerned-looking Timothy.

‘Your brother, Deric — have you seen him recently?’

‘Well, no, but what of it? A day or so back, he rode off on his own, as he often does. Said something about a spot of hunting.’

‘Hunting?’ Timothy shook his head. ‘Does that seem likely? Since Singidunum it’s been all fields and vineyards. Normally, I suppose one wouldn’t pick up on a little inconsistency like that. It’s just that. .’ Timothy paused, and looked uncomfortable.

‘Get to the point, man.’

‘It may be nothing — I wouldn’t wish to stir up trouble needlessly between yourself and your brother. But last night when, as is my habit, I was snooping round the wagon lines — you know me: “To see and not be seen” etc. — I spotted Thiudimund sneaking back into camp from the direction of the Ulca. I use the word “sneaking” deliberately; he was leading his horse and clearly anxious not to be observed. But I thought no more about it — until I heard that the Gepids had blocked the route ahead.’

Theoderic’s brain whirled. Suddenly it all made sense. Singidunum, the Shipka Pass, Illus, and now the Gepids. Past suspicions crystallized into certainty: Thiudimund had made contact with the Gepids and told them something. Whatever it was, it had had the effect of turning them from passive unfriendliness to active hostility.

‘Thank you, Timothy. You were right to report this.’ And the king strode off towards his brother’s wagon.

‘You will tell me about your meeting with the Gepids,’ Theoderic demanded. Concealed from outside view within a clump of alders beside the Danubius, the brothers faced each other. Something in the king’s grim expression had prevented Thiudimund from arguing, when summoned to accompany his brother to this isolated spot.

‘What meeting?’ Thiudimund protested.

An ungovernable fury swept over Theoderic. ‘Liar!’ he roared, and he sent his brother spinning to the ground, as the back of his hand smashed into his cheek. Mastering himself with a huge effort, he went on, ‘The truth, brother — or I swear you will not leave this grove alive.’

‘I told you, I was hunting,’ blustered Thiudimund, picking himself up. Then, something in his brother’s look made him change his stance. ‘All right, all right,’ he pleaded, as the king drew a dagger and advanced towards him. ‘I–I’ll tell you everything.’

It all came out, the words tumbling pell-mell from the lips of the terrified man, in his haste to avert Theoderic’s threat. At Singidunum, he had deliberately failed to give the signal for the diversion to begin; he had colluded with the Romans to bring about the confrontation with Strabo at the Shipka Pass; he had sent a message to Zeno misinforming him that Theoderic planned to join Illus in a coup to overthrow him; and, yes, he had secretly visited Thrapstila, king of the Gepids, warning him that the Ostrogoths intended to make war on his people. The reason: the Gepids had allied themselves with Odovacar, the foe of Theoderic and the oppressor of those friends of the Ostrogoths, the Rugians.

‘I’ll do anything — anything you want — to make amends, brother,’ babbled Thiudimund when he had exhausted his list of confessions. ‘Only spare my life.’

‘I will not stoop to take your worthless life,’ sighed the king, regarding him with weary contempt. ‘But others may. Tomorrow, you will lead the Forlorn Hope in an attempt to breach the Gepids’ barricades. It’s unlikely you’ll survive. But, no matter if you live or die, you’ll be regarded as a hero.’ He gave a bitter smile. ‘Never say your brother is ungenerous.’

About to ask Thiudimund what had prompted his treachery, the king desisted. What would be the point? The reasons were obvious: resentment fuelled by jealousy, stoking up malicious spite which had spiralled out of control.

Their ranks thinning steadily as they came within javelin range, the Forlorn Hope, headed by the tall figure of Thiudimund, struggled through the boggy shallows of the Ulca towards its western bank. Whatever the risk, there was never any shortage of volunteers for this most dangerous of roles, spearheading an attack on the enemy’s defence in order to create a weak point which those who followed could exploit. With half their numbers down, the Hope reached the father side, then, stabbing and hacking like men possessed, began to clear a passage through the mass of Gepids who swarmed to meet them. A few, a very few, made it to the top of the bank.

Heading the host across the stream, Theoderic watched the swirling knot of warriors — a chaotic melee of struggling bodies and flashing blades — surge back and forth before the barricades. Then, suddenly, a gap appeared in the defences: the Hope had broken through! A great cheer burst from the Ostrogoths as they waded the last few yards to the shore. Knowing that death from hunger would soon begin to harvest their people unless they prevailed, and inspired by the example of their king — a heroic figure in the gilded Roman armour that was Zeno’s parting gift — they fought grimly step by step up a slope grown slippery with blood. Cutting a gory swathe through the press of foes with sweeps of his great sword, Theoderic formed the tip of an advancing wedge which gradually forced a salient in the Gepid line. A final push and they had gained the crest, then in a bloody rush the barricades were carried. Perhaps daunted by their opponents’ ferocious valour, the Gepids broke and fled, to be cut down in their thousands by the triumphant Ostrogoths. Among the slain was later found the corpse of Thrapstila, their king.

Also recovered was the body of Thiudimund, pierced by twenty great wounds, all to the fore. As befitted a hero, he was buried in his armour with his weapons by his side, the host filing past his open grave to honour this most valiant warrior who had secured them victory against the Gepids. It was ironic, thought Theoderic without rancour, that his brother’s glory should eclipse his own. In dying a royal hero who had sacrificed himself for his people, Thiudimund had exemplified, like Ermanaric before him, the highest tradition of the legends of his race. At least in death, the king reflected, he had made a kind of reparation.

Theoderic himself had crossed a great watershed in his life, he realized. By masterminding the migration of his people, and taking them successfully beyond their journey’s halfway point, he had proved himself a great leader. And his victory against the Gepids had achieved for him the status of a hero king. When he faced Odovacar in the spring, it would be at the head of a united, strong and confident nation.

*

With supplies replenished from the Gepids’ harvest — enough to see them through wintering in camp — the train pushed on up the valley of the wide, slow-moving Dravus,* through a gentle landscape of low hills crowned by woods, with vineyards terracing their lower slopes. The frosts of early December were riming the grass in the mornings, when the wagons parked for the final time against the crossing of the Alps in spring.

* The River Drava, in modern Slovenia.