Theodoric

PROLOGUE

Like an endless row of needles, the mast-tips of the approaching fleet rose above the horizon, followed by the white flecks of sails then dark hulls — hundreds upon hundreds of them. The Vandal scout, watching from the northern tip of Mercurii Promontorium,* the monstrous headland pointing like an accusing finger from the African coast towards Sicilia, tried for a time to estimate the number of ships, then abandoned the attempt. As well essay to count the pebbles on a beach. Scrambling into the saddle of his waiting mount, he spurred off to bring the news to his master, Gaiseric, king of the Vandals.

The swirling crowds that filled the streets and squares of Carthage — from the forum crowning Byrsa Hill, to the quays beside the great twin harbours (naval and trading) and the sprawling suburbs of Megara to the west — seethed with aggressive excitement. Almost all the faces were of Romans, Moors and native Berbers. Those Vandals rash enough to venture out of doors had encountered a barrage of jeers, insults, rotten fruit, and even stones. For at last the Romans had arrived, to drive out the swaggering yellow-haired tyrants, with their harsh German voices and ugly sun-reddened skins, who for nearly two generations had bullied and oppressed the citizens of Roman Africa. Like wildfire, the news had spread that the Roman fleet — of over a thousand sail, some claimed — was even now riding at anchor less than forty miles to the north. The hour of deliverance had surely come.

Seated before his council within the great basilica of Carthage, where the baying of the mobs sounded only as a distant murmur, Gaiseric, though he gave no outward sign, was worried, deeply worried. Since seizing Roman Africa forty years before, he had maintained his grip on the territory by a mixture of luck and cunning, fomenting dissension between his enemies to play them off against one another, then striking when, divided, they were at their weakest. But now, it seemed, luck, fate (the ‘weird’ of his ancestors in their cold northern forests), call it what you will, had finally deserted him. For let the army of the Romans, currently aboard their fleet at anchor off the western shore of Mercurii Promontorium, once disembark, and he was finished. He was certainly outnumbered, probably vastly so, and, while his Vandal warriors would fight with ferocious courage, they were no match for the armoured Romans with their iron discipline. Nor could he rely on the support of his native auxiliaries; anticipating a Vandal defeat, they would undoubtedly desert to the Romans.

The only counter left him in the game was to play for time. If only the Roman commander (one Basiliscus, so his spies in Constantinople had informed him) could be prevented from landing his army, until. . Until the wind reversed direction, pinning the Romans against the western shore of the great promontory? Lead might float. At this time of year the prevailing south-easterly, famed for its constancy from time immemorial, could be expected to blow for weeks yet. With the wind in their favour, the Romans could sail at any time they chose, to establish a beachhead westward of their present position.

Gaiseric rose, to address his assembled war-leaders and advisers. Though stooped with age, and lame from an early riding accident, the Vandal monarch, white mane falling to his shoulders, was still an impressive figure, an aura of ruthless will and power seeming to emanate from him.

‘Who can tell me of this Basiliscus?’ the king demanded, in his deep, guttural voice.

‘Sire, he is the son-in-law of Leo, the Greek who sits on the throne of Constantinople,’ offered a battle-scarred veteran. Like many present, he had adopted the burnous of the local Berbers, a hooded cloak of light material affording some protection from the fierce sub-tropical sun, to which the Vandals’ fair skins were especially vulnerable. ‘An able general, it would seem. They say he drove the last of Attila’s sons from Dacia and Macedonia when they tried to find sanctuary within the Eastern Empire.’

‘Does he love gold?’

‘What Roman does not, Sire?’ answered a grey-haired councillor. ‘But if you mean can he be bribed? Unlikely, I would say. The man is hardly poor, so why risk his reputation?’

Further discussion concerning the relative strengths of the opposing forces served only to confirm Gaiseric’s worst fears. Dismissing the council, he sent for Engedda, a ‘cunning man’, skilled in the arts of healing, wise in the ways of beasts, and the lore of weather. When the sage arrived — a tiny shrivelled Ethiopian whose black skin hung in wrinkled folds from his ancient frame — Gaiseric put the question ‘Will the wind change, and if so when?’

‘Two questions, Mighty One,’ cackled the sage. ‘My fee is therefore double. Let us say. . twenty fat kine? To great Kaiseric, who is a river to his people, such a price is nothing. As it says in our Holy Book, “The labourer is worthy of his hire.”’

‘You drive a hard bargain, Engedda,’ growled the king, secretly amused by the little man’s effrontery. With Gaiseric’s hatred of all things Roman common knowledge, no one but Engedda would have dared address him as ‘Kaiseric’, incorporating the title of a Roman emperor into the monarch’s name. As for the ‘our’, referring to the Bible, Gaiseric had to remind himself that the Ethiopians had been converted to Christianity even before his own people. (As Arians, however, the Vandals were heretics in the eyes of the Orthodox Romans.) ‘When may I expect an answer?’

Engedda rolled his eyes portentously. ‘First, I must consult the spirits of my ancestors,’ he intoned. ‘Tomorrow at noon, ask what they have told me.’

On being informed by Engedda, at the appointed time, that in five days the wind would begin to blow from the north-west, Gaiseric felt a stab of hope. In thirty years he had never known the Ethiopian to be wrong. (Of course, he told himself, Engedda’s claims concerning supernatural assistance were just part of his persona, like his magician’s rattle and the bag of bones around his neck. The sage’s uncanny ability to predict the weather had to rest on a skill at reading signs, imperceptible to others, in the behaviour of birds and insects, cloud-patterns, the dryness or dampness of the air, etc.) If, for the next five days, the Romans could somehow be kept from weighing anchor, disaster might yet be staved off. Filled with renewed vigour and purpose, the old king began to lay his plans.

‘For God’s sake, Basiliscus, give the order for the fleet to sail!’ shouted Iohannes, the commander’s senior general. He banged the table in frustration, making a silver wine-jug jump, spilling ruby drops on a chart of the North African coast. They were in the great cabin of the flag-ship, Perseus, one of the dromons that made up the strike force of the fleet. Monster galleys, these were armed with viciously pointed bronze rams which could punch a gaping hole in an enemy vessel below the waterline, causing it to sink. ‘Every hour that we delay allows Gaiseric to strengthen his resources.’

‘What resources?’ scoffed Basiliscus with a smile. A large man, running slightly now to fat, he was adored by his soldiers for the generosity of his donatives and care for their welfare. In return, he had their loyalty and trust. ‘Look, by being in no hurry we achieve two things. First, we create an impression of Roman invincibility which should shake the Vandals’ morale. Gaiseric’s luck has finally run out; he knows it and his tribe knows it. Second, we allow time for intelligence of our overwhelming strength to percolate throughout the usurper’s realm. This will encourage disaffection among his Roman subjects, and desertion on the part of his native levies. Meanwhile, our people have a chance to rest and recuperate after the voyage, furbish their gear, clean and repair the ships. .’ He gestured through the stern window at a scene where a relaxed, almost holiday atmosphere prevailed. Overshadowed by the beetling cliffs of the huge headland, naked soldiers and classiarii — marines — splashed and skylarked in the blue waters of the Mare Internum, while sailors scoured the decks and scraped the hulls of sleek dromons and round-bellied transports.

Another advantage — although a strictly personal one, Basiliscus admitted to himself — was the receipt of suffragium* from Gaiseric. Each day, an emissary from the Vandal king would appear on the rocky fore-shore and be rowed out to Perseus. In addition to assurances that Gaiseric now wished to become a Friend of Rome with federate status in the empire, the messenger would bring a bag of gold. So the longer he allowed Gaiseric to hope that his olive branch might be working, the more he, Basiliscus, benefited. Where was the harm in that?

‘What if the wind should change?’ demanded Iohannes, his patrician features flushed with anger. ‘We would lose our present great advantage of the wind-gauge. We could even be driven on to a lee shore.’

‘You worry too much, Iohannes. As every skipper knows, at this time of year the south-easterly is practically guaranteed not to change. Why else do you think that, in the old days of a single empire, the corn fleets used to sail from Egypt to Ostia between June and September? Because delivery was always on time. An emperor’s popularity, therefore security, depended on the bread dole being regular.’ Basiliscus rose, stretched, and poured wine. ‘Here, have some vintage Nomentan — help you relax.’

‘No, thanks,’ snapped the other. ‘One of us needs to keep a clear head.’

‘All right, all right.’ Basiliscus raised his hands placatingly. Iohannes’ concern was, perhaps, he conceded to himself, not unjustified. It might be wise not to tempt Providence too much. A pity to forgo his little ‘bonus’, courtesy of Gaiseric; but all good things had to end sometime. ‘We’ll do as you suggest. Anyway, in the five days we’ve been here, the fleet’s been made pretty well shipshape. Tomorrow, I’ll give the order to weigh anchor.’

Surfacing from a heavy sleep, Basiliscus was dimly aware that someone was shaking him. He sat up in his bunk, pressed hands to a throbbing head — the price of punishing that vintage Nomentan. He made a mental note to add more water next time.

‘Captain asks if you could come on deck, sir.’ His pilot’s voice held a note of urgency.

Hastily pulling on shoes and tunic, Basiliscus became aware that Perseus was rolling violently. He followed the pilot topside up a short companionway, gasped as cold spray peppered his face and a buffet of wind slammed the breath back down his throat. The sight that met his eyes in the grey light of dawn was disturbing. In the night the wind had changed; a near-gale, blowing from the north-west, was whipping the sea into a field of tossing whitecaps, with everywhere ships plunging and wallowing as they strove to point their bows into the wind. Several transports, their anchors dragging, had been taken in tow by dromons, which, with their banks of crawling oars, resembled strange monsters of the deep.

Enveloped in a hooded smock of heavy wool, the navarchus, or sailing-master, approached the commander.

‘The ships need sea-room, sir,’ he shouted above the howling of the wind. ‘We need to get clear of that.’ He pointed to the towering rampart of Mercurii Promontorium looming darkly above the anchorage. ‘No problem for the dromons, even in this sea. Harder for the transports, though — means sailing closer to the wind than they can comfortably manage.’

Driven on to a lee shore — next to fire, the mariner’s worst nightmare, thought Basiliscus. The great headland which, until a few hours ago, had formed a natural breakwater could now become their graveyard.

With storm lanterns hoisted to her mast-head and boom-tips signalling other ships to follow, Perseus weighed anchor and began to creep jerkily away from the coast, her oars, first on one side then on the other, biting air instead of water in the choppy seas. As the light strengthened, Basiliscus breathed a sigh of relief; the fleet was slowly clawing clear of danger, the transports rolling wildly as they angled sideways to the wind to make seaway.

‘Sail ho!’ The cry of the lookout in the crosstrees came faintly to Basiliscus. Peering into the distance, he made out a dancing white speck, then another, and another, as the sea became stippled with sails. The Vandal fleet!

Fighting for calm, Basiliscus told himself that his command was not at serious risk. With their vastly inferior numbers, the Vandal ships, despite having the wind in their favour, could only harry, not destroy, the Roman fleet. Then his mind seemed to freeze, as a row of glowing dots sprang up along the Vandal van. Fireships!

Basiliscus watched, horrified, as the blazing hulks swept down-wind upon his ships. Fire was the worst thing that could happen at sea: canvas, sun-dried timbers, tarred cordage — so much tinder waiting for a spark. Within minutes, all cohesion in the Roman fleet was lost, as vessels strove to flee the danger. Valiantly, the dromons tried to secure cables to the fireships to drag them clear but, overwhelmed by sheer numbers, could make little difference to the outcome.

Ship after Roman ship exploded into flame as the fireships got among them, becoming in their turn agents of destruction. Soon chaos reigned, with vessels piling up on the rocky shore, or scattering wildly in their efforts to escape. Now, like a wolf pack closing on a helpless flock, the Vandals struck. With the wind-gauge allowing them to manoeuvre as they chose, they picked off single vessels with several of their own. Then, boarding, they swamped the defenders with a tide of yelling warriors. After vainly trying to repulse one such onslaught, Iohannes, shouting defiance, leapt into the sea rather than surrender, his armour pulling him instantly beneath the waves.

Only a battered remnant of the mighty war-fleet that had set sail with such high hopes limped back to the Golden Horn. As news of the disaster spread throughout the Roman world, the Western federates breathed a collective sigh of relief. With the treasuries of both empires exhausted, no further rescue of the West could be attempted. Gaul, Spain and Italy were theirs for the taking.

In that same fateful year, the twelve hundred and twenty-second from the Founding of the City, a fourteen-year-old hostage was receiving the education of a Roman aristocrat in Constantinople. The boy was the son of Thiudimer, king of the Ostrogoths, a Germanic tribe settled in Pannonia.* His name was Theoderic.

* Cape Bon, Tunisia.

* Payment of a ‘backhander’ accompanying a transaction; in effect, a covert bribe.

* An abandoned West Roman province in the Upper Danube region.