Theodoric

TWENTY-EIGHT

‘Well, that was almost too easy,’ Cyprianus chuckled to Pitzia as the two leaders, after supervising the dispositions of the Gothic camp outside the walls, returned to their improvised command post in the basilica of Sirmium, the once-mighty Illyrian city where the great Theodosius had been proclaimed emperor more than a century ago. Thrasaric and Fastida had proved to be parchment tigers. At the approach of the redoubtable Gothic host, who clearly meant business, the Gepids had produced a great deal of noise, shouting and banging spear-butts against shields. But when this tactic had signally failed to intimidate their opponents, they broke and scattered before the steady advance of their traditional foes. Fastida had fled back beyond the Danube, Thrasaric had disappeared without trace, his mother’s capture a pledge against his future good behaviour, and his force had meekly laid down their arms on being told that their lives would be spared if they surrendered. With the restitution of a retenator or governor and the return of their praecepta (rights and traditions) to the indigenous Roman population, the machinery was set in motion for the reinstatement of Pannonia Secunda as a fully functioning Roman province. (A Roman province incorporated into the Ostrogothic realm!) Mission accomplished, or so it seemed to Pitzia and Cyprianus as they made ready to return to Italy.

However, on the order being given by Pitzia to break camp, the Goths assembled in marching order — facing eastwards! Fired up by their near-bloodless victory, which had aroused but not satisfied their martial ardour, and unwilling to pillage their Sirmian hosts, whom they had just delivered from the Gepid yoke, the Goths — by one of those strange collective decisions which can suddenly infect a mass, had determined to press on into imperial territory in a quest for glory and plunder.

‘Madness!’ exclaimed Cyprianus to a desperate-sounding Pitzia, when the latter informed him of the situation. ‘Sheer madness!’ Forcing himself to stay calm, the Roman tried to assess the crisis objectively and come up with a rescue plan. He should have seen this coming, he thought grimly. This was what happened when you put a barbarian army under a leader who was not up to the (admittedly difficult) task of imposing discipline. Strictly speaking, such a force was not an ‘army’ at all, just a mob of individual warriors, all ferociously brave but basically motivated by a thirst for loot and personal glory. Pitzia — generous, and valorous to a fault — they would follow into battle anywhere. But Pitzia was not strong enough to control them when their will needed to be curbed. For that, you needed a Theoderic. And Theoderic, now middle-aged, was happy, it would seem, to delegate the responsibility to others.

The situation was potentially disastrous, Cyprianus reflected. The Goths were embarked on what was technically an invasion of the Eastern Empire, the most formidable power in the world. Success against the Gepids was one thing; taking on a disciplined Roman army quite another. The best that could be done, he thought (and it seemed a very poor best), was for him and Pitzia, accepting the fait accompli, to put themselves at the head of the host and hope that some easy pickings would soon come their way. Hopefully, reward enough to satisfy the Goths and persuade them to to turn back for Italy before the full wrath of Anastasius descended upon them.

A bizarre, almost surreal atmosphere seemed to surround the expedition as it marched downstream along the Danube. The men, fortified by copious supplies of food and drink transferred wholesale from the Gepid commissariat, were in a relaxed and happy, almost holiday mood, as they tramped at a leisurely pace through a beautiful landscape of water-meadows, wooded hills, and vineyards, all bathed in golden summer sunshine. Bypassing Singidunum (scene of Theoderic’s youthful victory against Babai), whose massive ramparts were defended by a strong Roman garrison, the Goths pressed on towards Margus, where a shameful treaty had been imposed by Attila on the East Romans more than sixty years before. Near the latter city, as the Goths were pitching camp for the night, Pitzia’s scouts (detached from the small body of cavalry accompanying the host) came posting in with the news that a Roman general, Sabinianus, was approaching at the head of a large force of Bulgar mercenaries.

‘This Sabinianus, what do we know of him?’ queried Pitzia, as the two leaders conferred in the commander’s tent.

‘Only that he’s one of the East’s top soldiers,’ replied Cyprianus. ‘Son of a famous general of the same name, who once ambushed a column led by Theoderic’s brother Thiudimund, capturing all his wagons.’

‘And the Bulgars?’

‘A Turkic tribe of mounted nomads, originally from Central Asia. Not, thank God, horse-archers like the Huns. The only saving grace is that, with the East’s field armies fully committed on the Persian front, we won’t be facing a Roman force.’

‘We should be all right, then.’

‘Should we now?’ snapped Cyprianus, infuriated by the other’s groundless optimism. ‘May I remind you that our army amounts to the grand total of two thousand men on foot plus five hundred riders. We’ll probably be facing a much larger force made up of Bulgar cavalry — among the finest in the world. There’s only one way to see off cavalry: forming a defensive shield-wall. And that, my dear Pitzia, calls for steadiness and iron discipline, qualities which even you must admit the Goths conspicuously lack. Oh yes,’ he concluded bitterly, ‘we should be all right.’

‘What do we do?’ Pitzia now sounded sober and concerned.

‘Well, we can’t retreat, that’s for sure. Being cavalry, they’d soon overtake us. So we have to offer battle. That means choosing a defensive position with as many advantages of terrain as possible. Ideally, a narrow front on rising ground between woods or marshes, so that we can’t be outflanked, while they’re prevented from bringing their full strength to bear. After that, as I’ve said, everything depends on discipline — our Achilles’ heel, unfortunately.’

‘We’re going to lose — is that what you’re saying?’

‘Not necessarily,’ mused Cyprianus, as he recalled a codicil to their orders. It granted them permission to ally with Mundo, a renegade warlord whose stronghold, Herta, was only a few miles distant, at the confluence of the Danube and a large tributary, the Moravus.*

‘Mundo? That leader of thieves and cut-throats?’ exclaimed Pitzia in horror, when the other had reminded him of this option. ‘We can’t possibly accept help from such scum.’

‘Then we’ll probably all die!’ shouted Cyprianus, losing patience. ‘Wake up, man. This is war. We don’t have the luxury of choice. If the Devil himself offered to help us, we’d have to accept. Mundo’s a nasty piece of work, I don’t deny it — boils his prisoners alive, I’ve heard. But, as far as we’re concerned, the only thing that matters is: will he make an effective ally? You can see that, can’t you?’

Chastened, Pitzia nodded.

‘Good. Now we have to move quickly. Herta’s less than ten miles from here; if I set off now on a fast mount, I can be there by sundown. Assuming I can persuade Mundo to join us, we should be back here sometime in the morning — hopefully before Sabinianus shows up. Mundo and his followers are Huns and therefore almost certainly cavalry, which is where we’re weakest. They’re a remnant of Attila’s horde. Stayed behind when most of the tribe drifted back to Asia, following the collapse of Attila’s empire. Right, I’d best be on my way.’

‘Just one thing: why would Mundo want to help us?’

Cyprianus groaned to himself. Getting through to Pitzia could be hard work at times. ‘Because the man’s living on borrowed time. At present, Anastasius has bigger fish to fry — Isaurian rebels and a hostile Persia. But Mundo knows the day of reckoning is bound to come. And that day could dawn very soon. After ourselves, Sabinianus’ next target — being conveniently close — would almost certainly be Mundo, who’s become a serious challenge to the maintenance of local law and order. By joining us, he’d be helping to keep Sabinianus off his back. And now, I really must be off.’

‘Shall we go to the rescue of this Roman and his beleaguered Goths?’ boomed Mundo to his chief retainers, assembled in the praetorium of Herta — an abandoned Roman fortress perched on a bluff above the Danube. Cyprianus smiled to himself, prepared to indulge this game of saving face. Although Mundo needed the help of the Goths as much as they needed his, he must be allowed to appear to be conferring a favour, in order to maintain his status among his followers.

The scene had a kind of barbaric splendour, Cyprianus reflected, the great chamber’s Roman austerity relieved by colourful tribal rugs, and weapons plus trophies of the chase hanging on the walls. Mundo was a mountain of a man, whose slitted eyes, deep-sunk in the beardless Mongol face, betrayed his Hunnic origins. His huge head showed the curious flattening and elongation caused by binding the skull to a board in infancy, a characteristic deformation practised by the tribe.

The chief and his kaftan-clad retainers conferred noisily for a time in Hunnish, then Mundo turned to Cyprianus and declared, ‘We agree to help you; but our help will not come cheap. Twenty solidi apiece for my warriors, twice that for my captains, and let us say a hundred for myself. In addition, I desire to take the foedus.* If I am a foederatus of your king, Theoderic, he and I will have a mutual obligation to aid each other should the need arise. Those are my terms, Roman. Take them or leave them.’

The demands were, of course, preposterous, thought Cyprianus. As well as acquiring, at a stroke, a fortune which would otherwise take years to garner, as a federate Mundo would change his status from outlaw to respected ally under the protection of western Europe’s strongest ruler. Well, needs must when the Devil drives, as Augustine (or was it Jerome?) said. And the deal was not all one-sided: the financial payout could probably be adjusted later to a more realistic level; also, as a federate Mundo could be a useful buffer against the East, should a state of war develop.

‘I accept,’ said Cyprianus, whereupon the pact was sealed by mutual toasts of kumiss, a beverage concocted from fermented mares’ milk.

‘Friends and fellow warriors,’ Cyprianus — mounted, in order to be seen and heard more easily — addressed the Gothic host, ‘today we face a Bulgar army commanded by a Roman general. Let us not deceive ourselves: the odds are great. They outnumber us; they are well-led, brave and skilled, mounted while we must fight on foot. But we can win — of that have no doubt. Only, however, if we behave as Theoderic would wish us to. You remember the Ulca where you defeated Thrapstila, the Addua where you turned the tide against Odovacar? Those victories were won because of discipline, because you allowed your warlike ardour to be tempered by obedience to the orders of your king. Though he cannot today be present in the flesh, Theoderic will be watching you in spirit from Ravenna. Remember that, and we shall win the day.’ The thunderous banging of spear-butts on shields that followed his speech told Cyprianus it had gone down well. But would it prove enough to make them hold the line?

Shaking with reaction, his tunic below the padded cuirass soaked with sweat, the Roman stood down the host, with instructions to eat and rest until the enemy was sighted. To his credit, Pitzia had, without demur, allowed his second-in-command to supersede him as regards the ordering of the coming battle — no doubt conceding that the Roman’s ability to persuade the Goths to accept discipline was superior to his own. Cyprianus had chosen the ground carefully: a declivity, flanked by great stands of oak and chestnut, and sloping down to a flat grassy expanse, the Plain of Margus.

Early in the afternoon, scouts reported that the Bulgars, numbering, they estimated, some five thousand horsemen, were close at hand and should arrive within the hour. Soon after, a growing cloud of dust on the horizon heralded the approach of the enemy van. The Gothic war-horns boomed and, following prior instructions, the host took up position along the ridge, a three-deep line of warriors bearing shields, and armed with spears plus various subsidiary weapons — daggers, throwing-axes, javelins, etc. The Bulgars, big, swarthy fellows armed, to Cyprianus’ relief, with lances and sabres, not with bows, drew up a few hundred paces in front of the Gothic line. To one side, surrounded by his staff, Sabinianus, resplendent in muscle cuirass and crested Attic helmet, sat his horse.

A trumpet clanged, and the Bulgar cavalry began to trot forward; the trot became a canter, then a gallop, and the lances swept down, presenting a terrifying sight to the waiting Goths: a solid wall of flashing hooves and foam-flecked muzzles fronted by a line of deadly points. This was the first time Cyprianus had faced a head-on cavalry charge. Till now, his military experience (in the wars with Odovacar) had been limited to campaigns largely fought on foot, with cavalry action confined to skirmishes, scouting, and hit-and-run raids. His father, who had fought under Aetius at the great Battle of the Catalaunian Fields, where the Romans and the Visigoths had defeated Attila’s Huns and their Ostrogothic allies, had told him that cavalry would never press home a charge against a line of spearmen as long as the line held firm. You could persuade men, his father had said, to commit themselves to destruction, but never horses; they had too much sense. Well, he was about to find out if the theory was true, Cyprianus thought, his mouth dry with fear and his palms sweating.

The ground began to tremble as the Bulgar horse swept nearer. It seemed that only a miracle could save the Gothic line from being shattered and destroyed. At a signal from the war-horns the Goths, in a blur of movement, swung up their shields, each man planting his right foot firmly forward and presenting his spear between his own shield and that of the man to his right. Then the miracle happened. A few yards from the Gothic shield-wall, the Bulgar charge stalled; for a few moments the horsemen milled about in apparent confusion, then they wheeled about and trotted smartly back to their original position. A ragged cheer — of relief as much as triumph, thought Cyprianus — arose from the Goths.

That the line had held was due to the matchless courage of the Germans, he knew. As long as they retained formation, they would be safe. The danger lay in their warlike instincts prevailing, causing them to break ranks to attack the enemy.

Which nearly happened. Time and again the Bulgar cavalry charged, only to retreat when confronted by that rock-steady wall of shields with its row of glittering blades. Then, after the sixth charge had failed, the Bulgars’ morale seemed to break; instead of withdrawing in good order, they turned and fled in confusion, uttering cries of despair.

‘They flee! They flee!’ exclaimed Pitzia a few yards down the line from Cyprianus, and, before the latter could restrain him, he rushed forward, followed by a section of the Gothic front.

Cursing, Cyprianus spurred his horse into motion and galloped down the line, which was beginning to lose cohesion as the warriors, the light of battle in their eyes, began to move forwards. ‘Back! Get back! he shouted. ‘It’s a trick! Remember Theoderic — his eyes are upon you!’ The reminder of their revered king’s expectations cut through the fog of fighting-madness that had begun to cloud the warriors’ minds. They halted, sense returning, then quietly resumed their shield-wall formation.

A terrible object lesson in how close they had come to disaster was now played out before the Goths’ eyes. Halting their headlong flight, the Bulgars wheeled and galloped back, swiftly surrounding Pitzia’s group. In moments the party was slaughtered to a man, cut down by sabres or skewered on lance-points.

Their ruse having failed, the Bulgars resumed their tactic of trying to break the Gothic line with repeated charges. To no avail; they could make no impression on the Goths, who now knew, from hard-won experience, that as long as their discipline held, they could see off the enemy indefinitely. At last, their horses blown, their resolve faltering, the Bulgars ceased attacking. At a trumpet-signal ordered by Sabinianus, they turned and began to move off — this time in good earnest.

Now Cyprianus sprang the surprise he had prepared. A special call on the war-horns boomed out, and from the enclosing woods there issued on one side the Gothic cavalry held in reserve until this moment, and on the other Mundo’s Hunnic horse-archers. Exhausted, caught unawares, the Bulgars reeled before the double onslaught, falling in scores to Gothic spears and Hunnic arrow-storm. The enemy being too numerous to defeat decisively, Cyprianus called off his horsemen before the Bulgars could start to counter-attack, allowing Sabinianus to leave the field and lick his wounds.

* River Morava.

* Oath of allegiance.